PS 1234 



1883 














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POEMS 



A2Z 



BY 



CLARA BUSH 



WITH A 



MEMOIR 



xl 



" Whoever thinks a faultless piece to sec, 
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall beP 







-0 ' 



JACKSON- TENN.: 
CISCO & HA-^WKINS. 

1S8?>. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by Clara Bush, 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



A TO MY SISTER, 

MRS. EMMA NORTHERN, 

THIS VOLUME IS 
LOVINGLY DEDICATED BY 

THE AUTHOR. - 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Memoir 9-18 

Poems — 

A Wish 19-20 

Dreams of Childhood 20-24 

Every Day 24-27 

Peace 27-30 

A Dream of Heaven 80-33 

Hope 33-3G 

Gentle Words 86-38 

To My Mother— Written at the age of Fourteen 39-40 

Friends 41-43 

Memories of Cliildhood 44-46 

Think of Me — My first poem, written when 13 years old 47-48 

Myrtle and Florence 48-51 

An Infant's Hand 51-54 

Earl and Pearl 54-56 

Footsteps at the Door 56-58 

Reverie 58-62 

Life 62-64 

Wait and Trust : 64-66 

Peace — A Vision ; 66-70 

The Grave by the Wayside..: , 70-73 

Verses— On seeing a Dying Bird 73-74 

Lament for Summer 74-75 

Call Me Not Beautiful .'. 76 

, Going Away , 76-78 

Let Me Weep 78-79 

A Request .' 79-81 

Moments of Joy i 82-84 



vi CONTENTS. 



Poems— page 

Fragments of Thought 84 

The Skeptic 85 

Man 85-86 

Thoughts — After reading Milton's Paradise Lost 86-87 

Lines — Written in the Album of a Friend 87 

Thoughts— Suggested by a sea-shell 88-91 

Album Verses 91-92 

Friendship 93 

One Year Ago 93-95 

The Winds of the Seasons 96-97 

Music 97-101 

A Letter— to Miss Alice O'Daniel.. 101-105 

Reflections— On New Year's Day 1882 106-108 

Stanzas — Inscribed to the Rutherford Cornet Band 109-112 

Touch Not 112-117 

Flowers 118-119 

The Blighted Bud 119-122 

Thoughts — Occasioned by a cluster of Flowers 123-128 

Lines— To Miss Jessie Holmes 128-131 

Lines— To Miss Callie O'Daniel 131-133 

Friendship's Dower 133-135 

Invocation 136-138 

Lines on receiving a Bouquet 138-140 

Lines— To Mrs, S. E, Thomas 140-141 

Stanzas — Addressed to M. P 141-143 

Verses — Suggested by receiving flowers in a nowsaper 143-144 

Lines— To Mrs. S. E. Debow..... '. 144-145 

Lines— To Mr. J. W. Hollomon 145-147 

Magnolia Blossoms 148-150 

Love, False and True 150-161 

Lines— Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. Claude J. Bell 102-104 

Stanzas— Dedicated to J. R. T. and L, W...; 165-166 

Musings..- 166-168 

Mrs. Fowler, nee Miss McCrory 168-170 

Lines — Inscribed to My Brother 171-172 

Lines— Inscribed to My Sister after her marriage 173-176 



CONTENTS. vii 



Poems— page 

"Oh, Carry Me Home to Die" ' 214-217 

"To Die is Gain" 217-219 

Silent Voices 237-250 

The Poet's Lyre 250-255 

Reflections on the twenty-sixth anniversary of my birth 255-257 

Questionings 257-259 

Death and Immortality 259-262 

Even-Tide 262-266 

The Hour of Death 266-269 

Eternal Rest 270-271 

Lines — Written on my twenty-seventh Birthday 272-275 

Acrostics— 

Rev. T. E. Scott 177 

Capt. A. J. F. Day 177 

Mr. T. M. Karnes 178 

Mr. Claude J. Bell 178-9 

Miss Daisy Pratt 179 

Miss Addie Foote 180 

Myrtle Alston 180-181 

Florence Alston 181 

Mara Washtella Rosson 182 

Minnie Clara Rosson 183 

Miss Colie Boyett 183-184 

Miss Birdie Boyett 184-185 

Miss Clara Bell Baldridge 185-186 

Miss Elnora PoAvell 186-187 

Miss Mattie Thomas 187 

Miss Anna Thomas , 188 

Miss Mary Gid Porter 188-189 

Dr. R. W. Powell 189-190 

To an Infant 190-191 

Mrs. Augusta J. Evans Wilson 191-192 

A Double Acrostic^ 

Mr. Robert Bowen and Mrs. Clara Bowen 192-193 



viii CONTENTS. 



Sonnet— pagk 

To my Mother, on her' Birthday ; 193-104 

To my Sister on her Birthday lOJ 

To my Brother on liis Birtliday , 195 

ToLidaS 195-196 

To an Infant '■ 196-197 

To Leonora J ■ r 197 

To Daisy E. P., an nnlinown friend 198 

On my iittle friend, Lena Taylor 198-199 

Inscribed to C. J. B., on the twenty-fourth anniversary of his 

birth 199 

To Miss Anna B ^ 200 

To my little friend Myrtle A., on her Birthday 200-201 

On seeing the portrait of a friend 201 

To W. A. M-, oh his twenty-fourth Birthday, 202 

To my Sister-in-law 202-203 

To C. J. B • 203-204 

Suggested by a visit from Mrs. S. P.James 204 

Dedication — 

Sacred to the Memory of Capt. A. J. F. Day 205-207 

"Gone Before" 207-210 

In Memoriam — 

Martin O'Daniel • 210-211 

Burney Reinej^ 211-214 

Lines— To the Memory of Mrs. Mary F. Lewis 219-221 

Brinnie Simmons 221-224 

Mattie Thomas 225-227 

MissBettie Fullerton 227-229 

Ella Sweets 229-231 

Lines— To the Memory of Mary G. Porter 231-234 

Epitaphs 234-23G 



MEMOIR. 



Miss Clara Bush, the invalid Poetess — a brief sketch "of whose 
sad yet beautiful life I will attempt to give — was born in Gibson 
County, Tennessee, October 21st, 1S53. Her pleasant home, 
" The Willows," is situated in the country, four miles Southwest of 
Kenton, and five miles Northwest of Rutherford, two prosperous 
towns located on the Mobile and Ohio railroad. Her father is a 
native of North Carolina, but in early manhood moved to West 
Tennessee and settled on his present home when' the whole region 
from there to the Mississippi river was a vast, dreary wilderness 
that had scarcely been trodden by the foot of the white man. At 
that early day, even in the loyal old State of North Carolina, good 
schools were very rare, and Mr. Bush had an opportunity of at- 
tending school but little when a boy, and when he had reached 
manhood it was necessary for him to go into the world and battle 
for a living, hence, he acquired little knowledge from books. His 
occupation is that of a farmer. He is an energetic laborer and 
honored citizen. 

Her mother also is a native of North Carolina, but moved with 
her parents to West Tennessee, when nine years of age. Her 
maiden name was Glisson. Her grandfather, Daniel Giisson, was 
a man of some note, and filled a public office twenty-two vears 
without intermission. She was well acquainted with the ceiebra- 



lo MEMOIR. 

ted Col. David Crockett. He and her parents lived near each 
other, and his little daughters were her playmates. About five 
miles from her present home are still to be seen the little log cabin 
in which Crockett lived and a tree on which he carved his name. 
Mrs. Bush has seen the fertile county of Gibson transformed from 
a comparative wilderness to one of the finest agricultural counties 
in the State, and the rude huts of the pioneers give place to beau- 
tiful structures of modern architecture. In her childhood the 
country afforded but few schools and poor teachers, consequently 
her education is limited, but she is a woman of bright intellect, 
deep feeling, and extraordinary talent, with unsurpassed energy 
and perseverance ; and in girlhood was possessed of a voice won- 
derfully sweet in song, for which she become quite noted. 

Both Mr. and Mrs. Bush are of the pioneer cast, and were en- 
dowed vv^ith powerful constitutions, but are now feeble with age 
and toil. Four children blessed their union, the youngest of which 
is the subject of this sketch. The eldest, when a gentle, lovely 
girl of eighteen summers, was laid to sleep in the churchyard, 
much lamented. The second, an amiable and intelligent woman, 
was recently wedded to a worthy gentleman of her own State, 
and now resides at a pretty cottage home not far from "The 
Willows." The third, a son, was also recently married, and at 
present is living in another State. 

At the age of six little Clara entered school, a bright, light- 
hearted, healthful child. She was a diligent student and "rapid 
learner. At this early age her fondness for poetry became appa- 
rent. Everything in rhyme had a charm for her, and all verses 
found on old detached book-leaves and scraps of newspaper were 
carefully stowed away as precious jewels. She enjoyed perfect 
health until she had entered her ninth year, when she became 



MEMOIR. II 

afflicted with a lingering disease, of the nature of which physicians 
were entirely ignorant. The first marked symptoms were loss of 
appetite, sense of suffocation, pain in her left side and limbs, ac- 
companied by a feeling of great depression and lassitude. She 
possessed such a thirst for knowledge that she continued going to 
school even when unable to sit up all day. The house where she 
went to school was constructed of logs and furnished with rude 
seats. At one end stood an old-fashioned box pulpit — for the 
house served the double purpose of church and school-house- 
Often, during hours of recreation, this weary child would lie down 
in the old pulpit, too sick to join her little playmates in their happy 
sports. Before she was nine she became too weak to walk to 
school. About this time her physician prescribed a medicine 
which, after awhile, seemed to give relief. This was temporary, 
however, and all the old symptoms soon returned with increased 
vigor. Another physician was summoned, who administered some 
very potent drug which only caused greater prostration, and she 
rapidly grew worse ; and from then to the present time has never 
been able to walk or even turn herself in bed. That was about 
1862. She had attended school altogether only about fiifteen or 
eighteen months. Had just begun the study of geography and 
arithmetic, but had not taken up grammar, and could scarcely 
write legibly. Since .then she has never studied a text-book, nor 
been taught in any department of literature. 

After becoming confined to her bed her suffei'ing was so great 
that for months she wept almost constantly and could not be quiet- 
ed — narcotics having not the least effect. To one so sensitive and 
so keenly alive to all that was bright and beautiful, the gradual 
settling down on her young life of this fearful gloom of despair 
was terrible. The birds, trees, streams, and all the lovely out-door 



13 MEMOIR. 

scenes so dear to her, were, too evidently never again to gladden 
her e3-es. When she fully realized her true condition every hope 
sank within her, and she prayed most earnestly to die. For 
months she slept only about two hours a day and took scarcely 
any nourishment. For three years she suffered so much and her 
spirits ^vere so crushed, that she could neither read nor write. 
When twelve 3'ears of age she improved a little, slept four or five 
hours in the twenty-four, and somewhat regained her appetite. 
Her broken spirits began to revive and she spent an hour or two 
each day in reading or, making little pencil sketches on bits of 
writing paper. She displayed great talent for drawing, and with 
such crude materials as straws for brushes and the juice of berries 
for paints, executed the portrait of a little child so life-like as to be 
recognized at sight. In her thirteenth year she commenced read- 
ing various kinds of books, among which were Bunyan's Pil- 
grints Progi'ess and Milton's Paradise Lost. Even at this date 
sixteen 3^ears later, although having never reviewed the latter work, 
she still has a very clear conception of it, and can repeat many 
passages from memory. At this age she liked fiction best, but of 
late years history, biography, and poetry comprise her favorite 
literature. 

When fifteen she began drawing with crayons and painting in 
water colors, and, entirely without instruction or the aid of models, 
executed a variety of pictures, which now adorn her room, and are 
the admiration and wonder of all visitors. Yet, perhaps a still 
greater "wonder are her specimens of artificial flower-work. Of 
almost every conceivable material she has beautifully and artisti- 
cally fashioned trailing vines, wreaths, bouquets, crosses, &c. Gf 
only three specimens of this species of work w^ill I make special 
mention. The first is a tiny wreath made with a pen-knife, of the 



MEMOIR. 13 

hulls and kernels of three chestnuts — the leaves being cut from 
the hulls and the flowers carved from the kernels of the nuts. It 
contains twenty-six flowers and forty-seven leaves. Some of the 
flowers are not larger than the heads of pins, yet with petals per- 
fect and distinct, and the circumference of the wreath is but little 
greater than that of a watch- crystal. The second is also a wreath, 
diminutive and exquisitely beautiful. It is made of the bright 
feathers of a ruby-throated humming-bird, and comprises sixty 
leaves and thirty-two buds and flowers, all so perfectly formed as 
to be surpassed only by nature itself. The wreath, entii'e, is 
scarcely larger than a bracelet. The third is an exceedingly 
minute and delicate piece of workmanship — a cluster of flowers 
made of the tips of her own finger-nails. Bits of nails are artisti- 
cally shaped, and veined in exact imitation of flowers and leaves, 
and tv/o tiny butterflies, form.ed of the same material nestle among 
the pearly blossom.s. These are objects so unique and display 
such exquisite taste, ingenuity and skill, that a mental picture of 
them cannot be drawn without having previously seen them. 
Several specimens of her fancy-work were on exhibition at the 
Nashville Centennial Exposition in iSSo, of which many compli- 
mentary notices appeared, both in the A77ierica7t and Banner. 
Her woi'k has been extensively exhibited at fairs, and is always 
awarded first premium. 

When Miss Bush was twelve years of age, as previously stated, 
her suflering became less violent and her appetite was somewhat 
I'egained. vShe remained in about the same condition until her 
twenty-fii^st year ; at which time her digestive organs became very 
weak and refused to perform their iisual functions, and for the last 
eight years she has ate only once a day, and then partakes of but a 
small quantity of some very delicate food, and frequently for 



H 



MEMOIR. 



weeks together subsists solely on fruit, of which she is specially 
fond, and which at all times forms her chief sustenance. Also, for 
the last eight years she has been compelled to totally abstain from 
drinking. The smallest portion of water, milk, tea, or liquid of any 
kind taken, will not assimilate with her system, and produces 
severe paroxysms. The juice contained in the fruit she eats is her 
only substitute for drink. She suffers intensely from thirst, and 
her throat and tongue are always parched and burning. Various 
celebrated mineral waters have been tried, but all have proved 
futile. Her average hour's for sleep now are three in the twenty - 
four. Many eminent physicians have visited her and prescribed 
treatment, but her disease has baffled the skill of all. They say her 
malady is an anomaly in pathology, and think her condition hope- 
less. From day to day and from year to year she lies in the same 
position. The least exertion produces intense pain and hemor- 
rhage, and she never sits up even for a moment, but occasionally is 
tenderly moved from one couch to another. Fortunately, she has 
not been deprived of the use of her hands, but otherwise is as 
helpless as an infant. All her writing is done in a lying position 
by holding the paper on a piece of card -board. As before stated 
she could scarcely write legibly when she left school, but now her 
chirography is elegant. 

A most remarkable feature in connection with Miss Bush's 
affliction is, that her mind continues bi'ight and active while her 
body is so frail and diseased. There seems to exist no sympathy 
whatever between the brain and diseased organs. Suffering and 
prostration cannot keep her thoughts from roaming in the beauti- 
ful realms of j^oesy. One of her early poems — "Reverie," com- 
prising eighteen stanzas, was composed at night between one and 
five o'clock, at a time when her physicians and friends thought her 



MEMOIR. 15 

in a d3dng condition. She composes all her poems, of whatever 
length, from beginning to close, before writing a line, and some- 
times, when too sick to write, keeps them in memory for weeks 
before committing them to paper. Her poems are usually heart- 
utterings, for she seldom attempts to write until some inward feel- 
ing prompts her to do so. She composes quickly and with little 
effort, and rarely ever revises anything when once written. She 
commenced writing at thirteen, but her latest efforts are of course 
best, for her mind is constantly expanding, and her thoughts flow 
from a deeper, purer fountain of beauty. Prizes were once offered 
by the publishers of a Knoxville paper for the best poems on 
" Peace" and " Eternal Rest," for both of which she was a success- 
ful competitor. Some of her poems have been given to the public 
through the columns of the Ladies' Pearl, Nashville, Farjji a?td 
Fireside^ Louisville, and Kansas City Times, and various county 
publications. Editors frequently insert complimentary notices of 
her in their papers. One calls her the "Sweet Child of Song," 
another " hopes to be often favored with gentle thoughts from her 
diamond pen," and all who know anything of her life's history are 
anxious for her productions. Although she knows nothing of the 
rules of grammar and rhetoric, we doubt if even a graduate of 
Yale or Vassar could write with greater accuracy. She seems to 
write intuitively. Most of her poems have an undertone of sadness 
but nothing of dark despair. Though a sorrowful gloom may 
overshadow the first part of a poem, the darkness gradually passes 
away until rays of heavenly light seem to illume the closing stanzas. 
In that exquisite lyric, " Hope," she concludes by saying : 

O sweet Hope, be thou ever my guide, 

Wave aloft thy wand ! 
Not a fear can my faint heart iDetide, 

With thine own strona; hand 



1 6 MEMOIR. 

To lead me on in life's darkened way, 
Thy glad voice telling ever and aye 
Of that eternal and perfect day, 
Dawning just beyond. 

Doubtless it would interest the reader to know something of 
Miss Bush's disposition and personal appearance. She lies in a 
shaded room on an invalid's couch with curtains drawn around. 
She is apparently of medium height, but quite delicately consti- 
tuted, and is kept neatly attired — always wearing white apparel. 
Her complexion is of pearly whiteness, but fever often gives her 
cheeks a faint roseate tin-ge. Her hair is of a dark chestnut color, 
luxuriant and beautiful, and her mild, brown eyes, instantly give 
one a clear insight into the soul of heavenly purity beneath. Her 
face vvears a thoughtful and rather sad expression, yet is of a rare, 
peculiar beauty. A noted man in speaking of her once said : " If 
she does not look like an angel, I think an angel ought to look like 
her," and such are the thoughts "of all her-visitors. Her voice is n 
very low and soft, as is the rarest, sweetest music. No one has 
ever looked upon her angelic face and heard her voice — seemingly 
music from heaven — but was made nobler and better by it. Un- 
like most invalids, she is not peevish and cross, but always pre- 
serves a sweet temper, and bears her affliction v/ith unexampled 
patience. Though apparently so helpless yet her life has been a 
useful one. The lilies " do not spin," yet they perform their im- 
portant part in life's drama. They please the senses of those who 
love the beautiful. Her presence has laden the moral atmosphere 
of her home with the rich fragrance of love and purity, and to be 
in her society makes one think of heaven and angels. She is of a 
very affectionate nature and wins the love and sympathy of all. 

She has written much about her friends, both the dead and the 
living ; and " Lines to My Mother," " Footsteps at the Door," and 



MEMOIR. 17 

sonnets to her mother, brother and sister, show how tenderly she 
regards the little family band. She loves flowers almost to adora- 
tion, and should you enter her room any day from the time the first 
timid blossoms of spring appear till the latest blooms of autumn 
fade, you would always see some of Flora's gems on a little table 
by her bedside. Her passion for flowers is widely known and 
loving friends bestow on her numerous floral tributes, for many of 
which she has invoked the Muses to express her gratitude and 
appreciation. Fragrant, white flowers are her favorites, but even 
the wild violets and daisies — so eagerly sought when a child — are 
still dearly prized, and each spring the neighboring children never 
fail to bring her the earliest blown. That sweet little poem to 
" Myrtle and Florence" is a real life-picture, and in reading it one 
almost seems to " hear their childish voices" and " their light 
steps coming," and in fancy sees them glide gently to the bed-side 
of their invaHd friend- and place in her dehcate white hand their 
dainty love-tokens — violets, buttercups and daisies " that by the 
roadside grew." In childhood she loved to ramble in the leafy 
woods, and listen to the carol of birds and murmuring rills ; and 
even yet, as she lies on her weary couch, her thoughts sometimes 
roam back to those fairy haunts and rural scenes, and as memory 
lingers sadly but sweetly over the past, is prompted to write in 
tender, pensive numbers, of the joy and beauty which has so long 
been lost to her. 

Music, as well as flowers, has a charm for this afflicted child of 
song, and of all instruments the soft low notes of the guitar are 
sweetest to her ear. She has a talent for music, and once had a 
guitar procured on which to practice, but her strength proved in- 
sufficient and the attempt was soon abandoned. However, she is 
not deprived the pleasure of sometimes hstening to her favorite 



i8 MEMOIR. 

oiusic. On many e - : r e \r : e r " ered in her room a 

I:t:"t ' ;: : e / - cans. a.n~- :. t :" sflver strains, 

:^t .-".r.:r . r -; .: r; .landing?. r esence of the 

gentle, patient invalid, irre-israblv 1- scire :"e with thoughts of 
£den or UtofMa. 

Miss Bosh is regard e . prodigy. . :. . r many visitors 

from vaiioas States ani cities. Words of praise £dl £rom every 
tongne, but have t.~' -—-z :: :---re the pure ampliaty of her 
nature to ferfing^ : She has not written with 

:J:;\;r--S :z : ::~ : r i t raath. yet. nnfxtnscioosly. it is 
7" '. :'.r :et.: t. The name of Clara Bush is fast 

z- r _ : t : : r ; r Mav the sweet melodv of her 

Tt - r r : . e : . t-tzT _-_ t ; : ue. and be wafted over seas 



;:: i.t.iicitv of this sketch 
ri — but if the 
-„c ----„_ of the invalid 
had not been told." 

CI-Al~3Z T. BzI-L- 






POEMS. 



A WISH. 

I often wish I might 
Some little poem wTite. 

Worthy to live 
And grace an honored page 
\\ ithin the coming age. 

And ser\"e to give 
Unto some troubled breast 
A peaceful sense of rest. 

And aid some heart. 
Burdened with grief and care. 
To faint not, nor despair. 

And hope impart 
To the despondent soul, 
That fain would reach its goal. 

Yet still must A\-ait 
Till kindl}- Heaven please 
The spirit to release. 

Though it be late. 



20 POEMS BY 

Oh, if I only could 

Write words of so much good ! 

It would but show 
My life not wholly vain, 
Though but a scene of pain. 

And, when laid low. 
All then would realize 
That God's decree is wise, 

And though He send 
Afflictions that oppress, 
They may the greater bless. 

And in the end 
Work out a rich reward. 
And treasure to the Lord 

A precious store 
Of jewels, that will shine 
And deck His throne divine, 

For evermore. 



DREAMS OF CHILDHOOD. 

The fairest scenes oft come before me 

In happy dreams; 
Youth's early morn reflects back o'er me, 

Its rosy beams. 



CLARA BUSH. 21 



Wrapt in the gentle folds of slumber, 

I seem to be 
A little child, whose glad years number 

Scarce three times three. 



Sometimes in the flowery wildwood 

Alone I roam, — 
The place so well beloved in childhood - 

The fairies' home. 



The days of womanhood and sadness 

Are all forgot; 
There comes no feeling save of gladness, 

In that bright spot. 



With infant hands I pluck the flowers, 
So sweet and fair, 

And twine beneath the leafy bowers, 
Wreaths for my hair. 



I listen to the wild birds trilling 

Their blithe notes free, — 

The breezes and the woodland filling 
With melody. 



22 POEMS BY 

There echoes in those regions fairy, 
A mystic strain — 

Entrancing music, faint and airy, 
With low refrain. 



The httle brooklet, onward flowing, 
Repeats a song ; 

As if to greet the flow'rets growing. 
Its. banks along. 



Sometimes I watch its waters flashing. 
In ripples free, — 

Far out some leaf or pebble dashing. 
In childish s-lee. 



The bright-hued butterflies flit near me. 

Or rest the wing; 
The little birds seem not to fear me, 

As sweet they sing. 



The old brown school-house, gemmed with mosses, 

Rises to view; 
Within whose walls life's cares and crosses 

I never knew. 



CLARA BUSH. ■ 23 

The play-ground, by the elm-trees shaded, 

The same appears ; 
Not a leaf or floweret faded. 

In all these years. 



I see the faces — hear the voices — 
Of playmates dear; 

And again my heart rejoices, 

To have them near. 



A happy band we roam together, 

Over the hill ; 
And seek the daisies in the heather, 

And by the rill. 



The fleecy clduds, like floating castles. 
Attract our eyes, — 

Kings enthroned and waiting vassals. 
Fancy descries. 



Gently, silently, onward drifting. 
Airy and light — 

Into a thousand weird forms shifting, 
They pass from sight. 



24 POEMS BY 

In childish awe and adoration, 
Enrapt I've stood, 

Watching the wonders of creation, 
So grand and g-ood. 



O, those happy dreams Elysian, 
That come at night ! 

They fade hke phantoms from my vision, 
When dawns the light ; 



Yet still they leave a thrill of gladness, 
Tho' brief their reign, 

And take from life some hours of sadness 
And weary pain. 



EVERY DAY. 



We are each one older growing, 

Every day; 
Down life's river swift are rowing, 

Every day; 
Steered for temples ever standing, 
We are borne, at God's commanding, 
Nearer — closer to the landing, 

Every day. 



CLARA BUSH. 25 

O'er their dead ones some are weeping, 

Every day; 
In the church-yard mounds are heaping, 

Every day ; 
These but give a pensive token — 
Ties of love must yet be broken, 
And the last farewell be spoken, 

Every day. 



We can see the sad and dreary, 

Every day; 
Meet the burdened ones and weary, 

Every day; 
Hear the sound of sorrow quaking — 
Wrung from hearts with anguish aching ; 
For the hearts of some are breaking 

Every day. 



Let our kindly aid be given, 

Every day. 
To those who are tempest driven. 

Every day; 
Words of hope for the despairing. 
And their troubles gladly sharing, 
Give our souls a higher bearing, 

Every day. 



26 POEMS BY 

Let us strive to be forgiving, 

Every day; 
Let our words be kind and loving, 

Every day; 
Let us goodly seeds be sowing, 
That for Heaven may be growing 
Fruits, to pay the debt we're owing 

Every day. 



Though we see so much of sadness. 

Every day, 
Still is heard the voice of gladness. 

Every day; 
The winds are tones of joy bringing - 
Sweet child-laughter glad is ringing — 
Happy birds their lays are singing — 

Every day. 



May we all grow wiser, purer, 

Every day. 
And our sacred trust be surer. 

Every day. 
If our hearts but faithful prove us. 
Heaven's King will better love us. 
And with angels watch above us 

Every day. 



CLARA BUSH. 27 

May the grace of God attend us, 

Every day, 
And His loving hand befriend us 

Every day; 
Let our souls renewed hope borrow, 
We shall, on some happy morrow, 
Leave this land where cometh sorrow, 

Every day. 



PEACE. 

O blessed Peace — gentle spirit divine ! 

She abides with the pure in heart: 
The lowliest lot sweetest joys combine. 

When touched by her magical art. 



Not queenly palaces, nor princely halls, 
Can tempt her one moment to pause 

With sin-darkened souls, where unheeded falls 
The sound of God's all-holy laws. 



28 POEMS BY 

She shuns the presence of ungodly men, 
Who work not in their Maker's cause, 

But hve, unmindful of life's wiser plan. 
Seeking wealth and worldly applause. 



No balm she brings for the wearied brain 
That covets only things that flee. 

Heedless that Heaven were far greater gain 
"Than to own -a whole world would be. 



But she seeks the cot of the Christian poor, 

And blesses their humble fare ; 
While the smiles of her face doth gently allure 

Their minds from the world's weary care. 



With Faith and sweet Hope she delights to live, 

And meekly goes, hand in hand. 
With Affection pure, and unselfish Love, 

A congenial sister band. 



Sad is the home where her name is unknown, 
But where Strife has entered instead, 

And over the hearts of the household thrown 
The blemish Contention doth spread. 



CLARA BUSH. 29 

As a gentle dove, 'neath Religion's wing, 

She lovingly nestles her head; 
And soothingly coos of that endless spring 

Where blossom the souls of the dead. 



O'er the couch of the dying saint she bows, 
And smooths down his pillow of rest ; 

And like a fond mother, tenderly throws 
Her soft mantle over his breast. 



She kisses the infant's untarnished lips, 
And makes them in slumber to smile, 

As, dreaming, from cup of nectar it sips, 
In Elysian lands the while. 



Yet she comes not near the bed of remorse. 
Where sleepless the guilt-burdened lies ; 

But soothes to repose the good in her course, 
With the sound of her low lullabies. 



O, blest is the province in which she reigns ! 

With Love's royal diadem crowned, 
She waves her white banner and sings glad strains 

Of good-will to nations around. 



30 POEJ/S BV 

Prosperity, 'neath her influence sweet, 
0\-erspreads the land of her s\va\' ; 

W'hile hoi}- Content and Happiness greet 
The toilers of life's wearx" waw 



The frosts of Adversit\- ne'er can chill 

The bosom of heavenly trust. 
For Peace — blessed Peace — her mission to fill. 

Will evermore walk with the just. 



A DREAM OF Ht:AVEX>- 

' Twas eventide. Dim shadows of twilight 

Fell around and fast deepened into night. 

Vet the gleam of stars and pale moon abo\e 

Shed their light o'er earth like a smile of love, 

And the winds seemeci whispering a refrain 

To the notes of the nighting^ale's sweetest strain. 

And 'mid distant hills low echo was found, 

While through the casement there stole a faint sound — 

A gentle cadence, that seemed to impart 

A holv calm and sweet rest to mv heart: 



*This poem is not a inoro oroatiou of the fancy, but is deseiiptive of what 
was i-eally divsmed. It was written at the ace of sixteen. 



CLARA BUSH. 31 

For I had grown weary of thinking long 
Of things that to the future day belong — 
Of things that God will ne'er reveal but keep 
From human comprehension hidden deep ! 
But when the melodies of night did fall, 
And wrap my brain in slumber's gentle thrall, 
I had a dream, a most wonderful dream. 
Of crossing over death's mystical stream 
And entering the beautiful land that lies 
Beyond its shores — the land of Pa'radise. 

' Tis said the pathway leading to the tomb 

Is through a strange, dismal valley of gloom, 

That weary wayfarers must, one by one. 

Pass through its shadows ere the journey's done ; 

And frail man shrinks from the terrors of dying. 

Dreading to think of the body lying 

With the pale throng that rest low under-ground 

In the strange death-sleep, so long and profound; 

Yet all those horrors, I fancy, will be 

Only as phantoms in reality, 

For methinks the Lord will some angel send, 

To guide and comfort to the journey's end. 



I will tell thee something of death's seeming. 
As it came to me in pleasant dreaming, 



32 " POEMS BY 

Yet language of mine cannot well portray 

The secret of its coming, or convey 

To other minds the perfect loveliness 

Of Heaven's scenes, and its true happiness. 

There was nothing sad or solemn to me 

In dreaming of death and eternity. 

It was like falling, when weary, to sleep^ 

Happily forgetting in slumber deep 

All things most sorrowful, — awaking soon 

In a land far brighter than. summer-noon! 

An isle so fair mortals never have seen, 

The tall waving trees remain ever green, 

The verdure decked hills and flowery vales 

Have never been swept by the wintry gales; 

Warm celestial light is there shed around, 

Casting a radiance o'er all the ground. 

While through the green plain flows a bright river, 

Over whose surface shadows fall never; 

And fadeless blossoms on its margin grow. 

Just kissing the waters that glide below ; 

Fairest flowers of earth may not compare 

For loveliness with those that open there ; 

The sweetest songs that mortals ever sing. 

The softest tones that fall from dulcet string 

Are lost to melody when angels sound 

Their golden harps the throne of God around ! 

And music from the holy minstrel band 

Is borne by soft winds o'er all the land. 



CLARA BUSH. 33 

I have sometimes thought of death with a sigh, 
But in my dream it was so sweet to die — 
So joyful to leave earth's bitterness and woe, 
And to happy, peaceful spirit-land go, 
That now I shall ne'er think of it again 
Only as a kindly release from pain. 
For I know all repining and regret 
In glad after-life the soul will forget, 
And weeping and mourning will ever cease 
In the far-away, sunny home of peace ; 
And the sweet rest found in that realm of bliss 
Will recompense for all sorrows of this. 



HOPE. 

While o'er life's sea my bark I'm rowing. 

Storms often lower; 
And for a time at their fierce blowing. 

My soul doth cower ; 
Yet soon, above the billows heaving, 
I see Hope's banner brightly waving, 
And then the gales that I've been braving 

Withhold their power. 



34 POEMS BY 

Though clouds of sorrow o'er me darken, 

Even might I smile, 
If to the voice of Hope I'd hearken; 

' Tis so short a while 
That their shadowy mist will tarry, 
For their dim folds are light and airy, 
And slightest touch of fingers fairy 
Might their reign beguile. 



Sometimes, as pensively I ponder 

O'er my saddened lot, 
I question fate, and, weeping wonder 

If I am forgot 
By the merciful and great All-wise, 
Whose home is so far beyond the skies 
That from the portals of paradise 
He may heed me not. 



Then cheeringly I hear Hope calling, 
' ' Cast aside thy fear ! 

Blessings around thee soft are falling. 
And thine ev'ry tear 

Will add a brighter luster, even. 

To the crown that waits thee in Heaven, 

By the Messiah to be given. 
On thine exit here. 



CLARA BUSH. 35 

What though grievous now be thy crosses ? 

Rest is very near; 
Christ will repay for earthly losses, 

O, faint heart, have cheer!" 
' Tis thus the siren keeps on singing, 
Till all the air seems gladly ringing 
With the blest message it is bringing — 

Message sweet and dear. 



And then I half forget my sorrow, 
While the tears I've shed 
Serve to enliven for the morrow 

Flowers reckoned dead ; 
And for a time my burden seems light, 
And the clouded sky again grows bright, 
For the drear eclipse of sorrow's night 
Is a phantom fled. 



When I sigh, to think this fleeting life 

Holds but hapless days, 
Bright Hope rises high above the strife. 

And lovingly sways 
Her merciful sceptre o'er despair, 
Till afar I see God's mansions, where 
The weary may enter in, and share 
Holy joys always. 



36 POEMS BY 

O sweet Hope, be thou ever my guide, 

Wave aloft thy wand ! 
Not a fear can my faint heart betide, 

With thine own strong hand 
To lead me on in life's darkened way, 
Thy glad voice telling ever and aye 
Of that eternal and perfect day. 
Dawning just beyond. 



GENTLE WORDS. 



Why not let our words be gentle ? 

Harsh words rudely jar 
On the feelings of another, 
And to kindly greet each other 

Would be better far. 



In the plainest words of converse, 

Music sweet is heard, 
If in tenderness they're spoken ; 
But the melody is broken 

By an angry word. 



CLARA BUSH. 37 

It would show a strength of spirit, 

To let no hard word 
Fall petulantly from our tongue, 
And strike the notes to music strung, 

Making rude discord. 



We would find it just as easy, 

In kind tones to speak ; 
Hasty, cruel words are grievous, 
And too sadly, truly, prove us 
Pitifully weak. 



Oft a little word, soft spoken. 

Falling on the ear. 
Throws a passing ray of gladness 
O'er the heart, darkened with sadness. 

And dispels the tear. 



Gentle words! — they cost so little. 

And such power hold 
To impart to others pleasure, 
Why not greater make their measure 

Many thousand-fold ? 



38 POEMS BY 

It will make our own hearts richer, 

If we will but give 
Lavishly, to our fellow-man, 
Gentle words whene'er we can. 

While on earth we live. 



We are lowly, sinful creatures, 

Sadly prone to err ; 
Yet if we've blindly gone astray. 
And can make amends to-day, 

Let us not defer. 



If one kindred heart we've wounded, 

By a word unkind, 
O, let us now forgiveness ask, 
And make it our most willing task 

The sad wound to bind. 



There may be less sweet than bitter. 

In the cup of life; 
There may be more thorns than flowers, 
Yet if unbroken love be ours, 

We can bear the strife. 



CLARA BUSH. 39 

TO MY MOTHER. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 

My mother, my darling mother, 

Thy name is sweet to me. 
And I have thought that none on earth 

Have loved as I love thee. - 



It is a pure, unselfish love, 
That I've borne thee ever, 

And day by day it deeper grows, 
And will live for ever. 



No form so dear to me as thine. 

No words so gently bless, 
No hand can soothe me like thine own. 

When I am comfortless. 



Alas ! if it should ever be 

That I must have to say, 
"Farewell, sweet mother," I only hope 

I may not longer stay. 



40 POEMS BY 

And I could not, for now I feel 
I soon would die of grief; 

Yet I could welcome death, and think 
It were a sweet relief. 



The world would seem a desert then, 
Nothing the void could fill. 

The mighty weight of careless woe 
My cheerless heart would still. 



I should so miss thy coming step. 

And thy gentle caress, 
And troubled would be my slumber, 

Without thy good-night kiss. 



Earth would contain no ray of light, 
All would be deepest gloom. 

And I would long to close my eyes. 
And sleep within the tomb. 



Without a mother's tender care, 
Without a mother's love, 

I could not wish a life like this. 
When there is peace above. 



CLARA BUSH. 41 

FRIENDS. 



( 



A dearer, sweeter word, 
Mortals have never heard 

Than that of friend ; 
No gift of greater worth. 
To habitants of earth, 

Could Heaven send. 



When worldly cares molest 
The mind's serener rest, 

And when the tear 
Of sorrow dims the eye, 
We wish some loved friend nigh, 

Our hearts to cheer. 

Though it may be our fate 
To bear affliction's weight, 

' Tis lighter made 
With dear friends waiting near, 
To speak kind words of cheer. 

And render aid. 



A pressure of the hand 
Can closer bind the band 
Of friendship sweet : 



42 POEMS BY 

There comes a holy thrill, 
The soul with joy to fill, 
When true friends meet. 

In loyal friends we pride 
In whom we may confide, — 

When we would lead 
Where foes have hidden snares, 
To harjn us unawares, 

They give us heed. 

Our happiness depends 
So much upon our friends. 

That we should hold 
The riches of their love, 
In value, far above 

Riches of gold. 

True friends will self deny 
Of much, without a sigh, 

That others may 
Awhile forget their woe, 
And bask within the glow 

Of pleasure's ray. 

The richest hoards of earth 
Would be of little worth. 
If not a soul, 



CLARA BUSH. 43 

In all the cold world wide, 
Cared how we lived or died, 
Or what our eoal. 



A lofty sounding name, 
And loud applause of fame, 

Wins sunshine friends ; 
But these will stand afar, 
If some unlucky star 

A fall portends. 

The friend worthy to own 
Would question not renown ; 

And still would be 
Unselfish, kind and just, 
And loyal to all trust, 

Should fortune flee. 

And when our latest breath 
Is hushed for aye in death, 

The mound above — 
' Tis sweet to think a few. 
Who proved a friendship true, 

Our names will love. 



44 POEMS BY 

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 

As I lie on my couch so weary, 
Where for many years I've lain, 

Strange thoughts, half sad and half pleasant, 
Steal softly upon my brain. 

Fair scenes of happy days long gone, 

To my memory arise, — 
Visions that seem celestial bright, 

Of lovely earth and fairer skies. 

My thoughts are wont to roam afar, 

To a woodland spot so fair, 
I once believed some fairy queen 

Had enchanted all things there. 

Methought the flowers were fairer 

Than those that blossomed elsewhere ; 

And the songs of birds and rivulet 
Were sweet, O ! so sweet to hear. 

I view again the moss-grown hill, 

Shaded by an aged tree. 
And through its branches drooping low 

The sunbeams fall fitfully. 



CLARA BUSH. 45 



Violets are opening there, 
Like the ones I used to twine 

With lily-bells and daisies white, 
All their beauty to combine. 



I think of a dell 'neath grand old trees, 
Where first bloomed the sweet wild rose ; 

The brooklet flowed more softly there, 
And its eddies found repose. 



Sometimes in the hush of evening. 
When the zephyrs gently blow, 

I fancy I hear the murmur 

Of that streamlet, soft and low. 



Then fain would I bid farewell to pain. 
And go seek its brink once more, 

To sip again from a leaflet cup 
Its cool waters, as of yore. 



When a child of few brief summers, 
It was there I used to play ; 

Unconscious that the swift, glad hours, 
Were hastening a sadder day. 



46 POEMS BY 

Fair was the dawning of my life, 
It had no shadow of gloom ; 

Sunbeams of joy gilded my way, 
And flowers of hope were in bloom. 



Yet even while life seemed brightest. 
Sorrow came in dark array ; 

And disease, with pitiless hand, 
Rudely seized me for its prey. 



When I think of the weary years 

O'er which no sunny rays have beamed 

I half believe them all not true, 

But only something sadly dreamed. 



For oh! it does not seem that one, 
Who once did not a sorrow know, 

Could bid adieu to youthful joys 
And live so long and suffer so. 



But hush ! there is a voice that says, 
"The Lord doth all things well ; " 

Whom He loveth He will chasten, 
And His mercies none can tell. 



CLARA BUSH. 47 

THINK OF ME. 

ADDRESSED TO A SCHOOLMATE, WHEN THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. MY 

FIRST POEM. 

Dearest, list to the gentle winds 

As they linger on the lonely tree. 
And as they moan as one that 's weary. 
Think of me. 



Go out in the grove where flowers bloom, 

And cull the sweetest that you may see ; 
And as you twine them in a garland 
Think of me. 



Look at a rose that was so lovely 

Ere the vile worm sought it for its prey, 
And while you view the blighted flower 
Think of me. 



Go gem thy brow with pure buds of white, 
Fit emblems of sadness though they be ; 
As you cull the fairest of beauty's race 
Think of me. 



48 POEMS BY 

Remember the home of our school days, 

Where from sorrow and pain we were free ; 
If ever you wander where we Ve played 
Think of me. 



Think of one with whom you have gathered 
Sweetest of blossoms from nook and dell ; 
Forget not those bright and happy days, 
Now farewell. 



MYRTLE AND FLORENCE, 

LITTLE FRIENDS THAT BRING ME WILD FLOWERS. 

I hear their childish voices 

Just out the open door, 
Then hear their light steps coming 

Along the wide hall floor. 



They glide into my bedroom, 
Their faces all aglow. 

With the rapturous feelings 
Of blithesome hearts below. 



CLARA BUSH. 49 

They steal close to my bedside, 

And then it is so sweet, 
Whene'er their warm lips rosy 

Mine own with kisses meet. 



They bring me wildwood flowers, 
That by the roadside grew. 

The dainty, meek, white daisies 
And violets of blue. 



And buttercups all golden, 
With sprays of grasses green, 

That form as fair a cluster 
As eye hath ever seen. 



I prize the woodland blossoms,' 
Because it was of them 

My unskilled hands first fashioned 
The artless diadem. 



When but a lisping infant 

These simple blooms I sought. 

And homeward, rapt in transport, 
A store of treasures brought. 



50 ' POEMS B Y 

My little friends, sweet Myrtle 
And Florence — sisters twain, 

Portray anew my own youth, 
Ere came disease and pain. 



To them all days are joyous ; 

Each morn, returning, brings 
Some newly added blessing 

Upon its spreading wings. 



They think that each to-morrow 
Will be like fair to-day, — 

Unconscious that time's shadow 
Will chase its light away. 



I love these little children. 
They are so pure and mild ; 

Their lives of sunny pleasures 
By sin yet undefiled. 



I watch their smiling faces, 
That have become so dear, 

And always think of angels 
Whenever they are near. 



CLARA BUSH. 51 

No guile their young brows shadows, 

Their look is purity, 
With voice so like my fancies 

Of what seraphs may be. 

They each have tresses golden, 

With eyes of mildest blue, 
And cheeks with tints like roses 

That wear a blushing hue. 

Not even fairy music, 

That poets dreaming hear. 
Outrivals their glad laughter. 

Or holds such power to cheer. 

O guileless, happy childhood. 

How swiftly thine hours flee ! 
Leaving of blissful moments 

Only the memory. 



AN INFANT'S HAND. 

Only an infant's tiny hand, 
Lily-white and dimpled, too ; 

Yet many deeds in coming years 
The pretty wee hand may do. 



52 POEMS BY 

Care-worn furrows it may deepen 
On the forehead of a father ; 

And crush the tender, loving heart, 
Of a kind and gentle mother. 



It may cluteh the ruby wine-cup. 
That the soul will surely blast. 

And press it to lips so guileless 
When a mother kissed them last. 



And while the brain is wine-heated. 
The once stainless little hand 

In wrath may deadly weapon raise, 
Swift to slay the truest friend. 



The wee fingers white may never 
Be with honest labor soiled, 

But may take by stealth the riches 
For which other hands have toiled. 



Or, it may never do a deed 
That the pure soul will defile, 

But of those goodly works partake, 
On which holy angels smile. 



CLARA BUSH. 53 

To aid the poor it may extend, 

And their empty coffers fill ; 
It may guide the blind and aged 

Till God whispers " Peace, be still." 



It may gently lift the feeble 

That have fallen in rough ways; 

And to thin lips, parched with fever, 
Cooling, crystal water raise. 



It may softly smooth the pillow 

Of some suffering mortal, 
Who is far from home and loved ones, 

And passing through death's portal. 



It may wipe away the death-dew 
That on the cold forehead stands; 

And when the heart is stilled forever. 
Close the eyes and fold the hands. 



It may gather bright, sweet flowers, 

• And garland the simple stone 
That marks the spot where someone lies 
In a strange land, all alone. 



54 POEMS BY 

It may plant the rose and lily, 

That they may their fragrance shed 

O'er the lowly resting-places 
Of the pale and silent dead. 



It may clasp the Holy Bible 

That was in mercy given ; 
And when the sad heart yearns for rest, 

Be raised in prayer to Heaven. 



None can tell, as the years glide by, 
What the little hand may do ; 

Yet still we trust that it will prove 
Ever faithful, ever true. 



EARL AND PEARL. 

I know two little winsome babes, 

A beautiful boy and girl. 
They 're not yet quite a twelvemonth old, 

And are christened Earl and Pearl. 



CLARA BUSH. 55 



Elfin Earl has fair, silken hair, 
And tenderest eyes of blue; 

White as the lily is his brow. 
With cheeks of roseate hue. 



Fairy Pearl has darkened tresses, 
And eyes like jewels shining, 

With dimpled cheeks, and lips so sweet 
They quite defy defining. 



They each have just begun to take 
The primitive steps in walking, 

And to use a mystic language, 

That scarce might be called talking. 



Their restless feet and busy hands 
Are hardly still a minute ; 

And their rippling, gleesome laugh. 
Has artless music in it. 



When first I met their infant charms, 

. They won me to caressing; 
And, in the fondness of my heart, 
I wished on them a blessing. 



56 POEMS BY 

Much I love these dove-like darlings, 
'Tis sweet to have them near me, 

For they hold a magic power 
To gently soothe and cheer me. 



Little children — guileless beings! 

The Savior loved them, even. 
It was of them He said " Of such 
- Is the kingdom of Heaven." 



FOOTSTEPS AT THE DOOR. 

Footsteps were at the door, 
A shadow on the floor, — 
A maiden form stole softly to my side ; 
The face was pure and fair, the brow untouched by care, 

The flowing hair like wavelets seemed to glide ; 
The eyes, so mildly bright, shone with serene love-light. 

While round the lips a smile of gladness played ; 
The hands were filled with flowers, fresh from Flora's bowers, 
And on my bosom all the gems were laid,^ 
A gentle sister's care, 
How sweet, how sweet to share. 



CLARA BUSH. 57 

Footsteps were at the door, 
A shadow on the floor, — 
Then one in manhood's prime stood by my bed ; 
How stately rose his form, built strong to brave life's storm. 

And how majestic looked the well poised head ! 
The visage, mild, portrayed humility, arrayed 

In all the valor of a noble heart ; 
A book of verse he brought, whose pages, he had thought, 
Would pleasure to my weary hours impart, — 
A kindly brother's care, 
How pleased, how pleased to share. 

Footsteps were at the door, 
A shadow on the floor, — 
A matron, feeble and toil-worn, drew near ; 
Her step had weary grown, sorrow and care had drawn 

Some added lines upon her brow each year ; 
And many threads of gray had found their wonted way 

Among the silken locks of raven hue ; [weak, 

She bowed and kissed my cheek ; and, though her hands were 
Still asked if there was aught that she could do,— 
A loving mother's care, 
Hov/ blest, how blest to share. 

Footsteps were at the door, 
A shadow on the floor, — 
An aged man approached with solemn tread ; 



58 POEMS BY 

Of sin there was no trace upon his guileless face, 

But time had shed its snows upon his head, 
And swept youth's warmer glow from off his cheek and brow. 

And left some furrows meet for three-score years ; 
He spake in words most kind, as fain to soothe and bind 
My stricken heart, and check the falling tears, — 
A pious father's care, 
How glad, how glad to share. 



REVERIE.* 



' Tis sweet to think of the long ago, 
The time when my cares were few. 

Ere my sunny life was blighted, 
Ere sorrow and pain I knew. 



Yet those bright days, long vanished. 
Seem more like a dream than true. 

For my years were few and tender 
When affliction first I knew. 



* " Reverie" is one of my earliest poems, and has not the undertone of 
sadness that characterizes many of my later productions, but was true to 
my sentiments when written. 



GLARA BUSH. 59 

I can just remember faintly 

When I played among the flowers, 
And wondered if the angels' home 

Could be lovelier than ours. 



Though the scenes of happy childhood 

I may never view again, 
I feel not a tinge of sadness, 

Nor sigh at the thought of pain. 



Resigned and patient can I suffer, 
For it seems the will of God ; 

And, as it pleases Heaven thus. 
Let me pass under the rod. 



For angel visitants, I trust. 

Round my bed are waiting nigh, 

Soon from sorrow's land to bear me 
To a blissful home on high. 



Though many long years I've suffered, 
Should the angels claim me now, 

I know that some would fondly kiss 
My icy lips and peaceful brow ; 



6o POEMS BY 

And on my cheek, so strangely white, 
A few tears of sorrow shed, 

To think that they must say ' ' farewell, 
And lay me in earth's cold bed. 



Affection, then, may rear a stone. 
And plant a few flowers there, 

To make less sad the lowly spot 
Where I'm- sleeping, free from care. 



I would not be forgotten quite. 
For it seems sweet to think 

My name will be, in memory's chain, 
A bright and glittering link. 



And when friends my lone grave visit, 
I would have them think me blest; 

Though the tomb seems dark and cheerless, 
Sweet, O ! sweet will be my rest. 



Loved ones even should feel thankful 
That earth has one sufferer less ; 

For in some distant, happy country. 
Golden streets my feet will press. 



CLARA BUSH. 

And the time may not be distant 
Ere my spirit's with its God, 

And my weary body resting, 
Gently resting, 'neath the sod. 



Though should Heaven not yet call me, 

If my race is not yet run. 
The crown, perhaps, will be brighter 

And more beautiful when won. 



Longer yet if I must suffer. 
Ere the mystic tide is passed, 

I can bear the cross far better 
As I hope for rest at last. 



Yet may the angel. Submission, 
Ever watch around my bed, 

And the gentle angel. Patience, 
A holy influence shed. 



And when my mission is ended, 
And Messiah bids me "come!' 

May a bright seraphic convoy 
Bear my weary spirit home. 



62 POEMS BY 

O! then will I rejoice ever, 
When a quiet haven's found; 

For this side of realms celestial 
Perfect peace may not abound. 



LIFE. 

What has life? Many sad, sad things, 

With little joy; 
No happiness to us it brings, 

Without alloy. 



Though lovely earth has ever had 
Such bright array. 

Its vestment bears the impress sad, 
" Passing away." 



All things of terrestrial birth. 
Will transient prove; 

Nothing stable is found on earth, 
Of all we love. 



CLARA BUSH. 63 

The fairest, sweetest flowers may grow, 

In summer day, 
But when the chilling north-winds blow, 

They cannot stay. 



The rustle of dead leaves we hear. 
And mark their fall ; 

They whisper of the waiting bier, 
And sable pall. 



We may have friends, our love for whom, 

Words cannot tell; 
Soon we must bear them to the tomb. 

And say ' ' farewell. " 



Objects most cherished, one by one, 

Are taken hence; 
And oft we gain for labor done. 

No recompense. 



Although our cross is heavy here, 

■ And hard to bear, 
Let us believe that rest is near, 
And not despair. 



64 POEMS BY 

For oh ! why should we care, or sigh 

At pain below? 
Rehef is found beyond the sky, 
I From ev'ry woe. 



The Savior calls in tender tones, 
' ' Come, ye who will ;" 

There yet remains for weary ones, 
A blessing still. 



And sorrows that now darken o'er 

Our dreary lot, 
Will be forgotten on the shore, 

Where grief is not. 



WAIT AND TRUST. 

It was the holy time of prayer — 
Calm eventide; 

A gentle boy of beauty rare 
Knelt by the side 



CLARA BUSH. 65 

Of widowed mother, who had sought 
To fill his mind with purest thought, 
And, to redeem the world, had taught 
The Savior died. 

She kissed him when his sunny head 

The pillow press'd. 
And that Heaven its blessings shed, 

Was her request; 
Thankful, she whispered, ' ' Fate was kind 
To give this precious tie, to bind 
My weary heart, that it might find 

In love a rest. 

A few glad years on time's swift tide 

Did onward drift, 
But soon its current, flowing wide. 

Its course did shift ; 
A messenger from God was sent — 
** The boon, " he said, * ' was only lent ;" 
And, for some wise and good intent. 

Reclaimed the gift. 

The mother, weeping, turned away, 

' Twas sorrow's night ! 
Into the glow of hope's fair day 

Had come a blight; 



66 POEMS BY 

" Cruel is fate," was now her moan, 
' ' To leave my life bereft and lone, 
Gone from my heart — forever gone! 
Its treasure bright." 

But when her steps drew near their goal 
There seemed to steal 

A mild submission o'er her soul. 
That made her feel 

God's hidden motives wise and best ; 

And meek she waited His behest. 

That soon would give her perfect rest 
And all reveal. 



PEACE — A VISION. 

DESCRIPTIVE OF THE RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE OF A FRIEND. 

The fair, sweet day was ended ; yet the night 
Wore not its darkest vesture. Calm and bright 
The crescent moon shone out the stars among, 
And o'er the earth a robe of soft light flung. 
As from my window viewed the scene was fair. 
But oh, I could but think how much of care — 



CL4RA BUSH. 67 

Of bitter pain and strife — of woe and crime, 
Man's fallen race had known since first was time ! 
And to my mind despondent thoughts arose, 
While troublous feelings stirred my soul of woes. 



I was a toiler in the field of life ; 
Sweet peace I sought but witnessed only strife ; 
The way looked dim before me, and around 
I heard the rush of angry billows sound ; 
My life seemed wrapt in shadows, and I sighed 
To think all gleams of joy were it denied ; 
As cast in desert place appeared my lot — 
My form a drooping plant, forlorn, forgot ! 
At length, o'erpowered by dark despair, I wept; 
And then, like tempest lulled, I calmly slept. 
And as I lay in gentle slumbers, dreaming. 
There came to my sight, in fancy's seeming — 
The form of an angel in far-off sky ! 
And nearer, still nearer, it swift did fly, 
Till I heard the rustle of garments white. 
And the sweep of pinions in downward flight ; • 
And then, as a moment it poised in -space, 
As if pondering first which course to trace, 
Emblazoned on circlet that bound its head. 
The blessed word Peace I wondering read. 
*' Ah ! 'tis God's holy messenger," I cried, 
" His angel of Peace!" and then I espied 



68 POEMS BY 

That one fair hand an olive-branch bore, 

The other — God's Word, which is Hfe evermore. 

Much amazed I watched, till with gentle grace. 

And a loving smile on the shining face, 

The soft, snowy wings were again outspread. 

And lo, to my side the bright seraph sped ! 

" I have come," said a voice, "at God's behest, 

He knows the depth of thy soul's unrest. 

He would calm its tumult and bid it cease. 

And lead thee kindly into paths of peace ! 

He would make thee happy, and never did aim 

To oppress the children that triist His name ; 

His ways are pleasantness, and guide to a home 

Where peace ever reigns and griefs never come ; 

That haven is free to each faithful heart 

That trusts in Heaven as that better part." 



The message delivered the angel withdrew. 
And, pluming its pinions, back heavenward flew. 
Bewildered, and wondering at the scene. 
And pondering what its presage could mean, 
I press'd my temples, and marveled to find 
Olive-leaves around my forehead entwined ! 
' Twas done so softly I failed to perceive 
When the angel hands did the garland weave. 
"Sweet emblem of Peace," I moaned, "O Heaven! 
May yet this boon to my soul be given ? 



CLARA BUSH. 69 

'Twer better than riches, or high renown, 
The calm, holy feeling of peace to own ; 
Oh ! where may this comforting balm be found ? 
Where doth its soothing influence abound?" 

Then was heard the rustle of book-leaves stirred ; 
I looked, and behold ! God's own holy Word, 
With pages unclosed lay open to view, — 
The gift of an angel — the good, the true. 
" It enfolds some timely warning," I mused; 
And then, as page after page I perused, 
I found that each word a new meaning wore 
To what it had ever conveyed before ; 
Thad walked in darkness: God's wise command. 
My soul, benighted, could not understand, 
But now shone over me a light divine. 
And Knowledge stood by to teach and define ; 
I chose the heavenward — the narrow way. 
With firmest resolve to go not astray ; 
Then casting my trust on the Savior's care. 
Life's cross no longer seemed heavy to bear ; 
And into my bosom a feeling stole 
That fell like balm on my wearied soul ! 
All tumult, all strife, seemed gently to cease, 
While there came a voice — "God's word giveth peace." 

I awoke from my sleep, and pondered o'er 
The wonderful vision. Never before. 



70 . . POEMS B Y 

Awake or dreaming, had so strange a sight 
Appeared to my view in day-time or night. 
I thought of all the bright seraph had said, 
And reviewed the words I had dreaming read, 
And found, indeed, I had wandered astray — 
Afar had I roamed from the '* narrow way," — 
' Twas this that grieved and troubled my breast. 
Giving my being no portion of rest. 
I prayed the dear Lord to pilot me back, 
To show me anew the heavenward track ; 
And with faith made firm I trusted His grace. 
And found in His service that long-sought peace. 



THE GRAVE BY THE WAY-SIDE. 

SUGGESTED ON READING IN A BOOK OF TRAVELS AN ACCOUNT OF 
A LITTLE WAY-SIDE GRAVE UNMARKED AND UNKNOWN. 

There is a grave by the way-side, 

A lowly wee grave and lone ; 
No stone is there with words to tell 

Who from life has early gone. 



CLARA BUSH. 71 

Yet all who view the spot believe, 

With many a tear and prayer — 
Some wayfarers have journeyed past, 

And left the lone sleeper there. 



We can but know by the tiny mound 
' Twas a child of tender age, 

Who had life's volume just unclosed, 
And left unwritten each page. 



A little babe, perhaps, whose days 
Had not lengthened into years. 

Whose eye had never once been dimmed 
By the flow of sorrow's tears, 



Whose heart of angel purity 

Had never been touched by sin, 

Whose life had borne no cross and yet 
A heavenly crown did win ! 



Although no marble marks the spot, 
There the greenest grasses wave ; 

And sweetest flowerets have sprung 
And covered the little grave. 



72 POEMS BY 

While lovely myrtles round the place 
Their cool shadows gently fling ; 

And joyous wild-birds ofttimes come, 
And long and sweetly sing. 



There travelers a moment pause, 
Or move with gentler tread, 

Whene'er they near the resting-place 
Of the early, unknown dead. 



Oh, none can tell the pangs that wrung 
Each kind, loving, parent heart ! 

When the conquering angel claimed 
Their dearer and better part. 



Although their lives may still be cheered 
By merry child-voices sweet, 

And still their new-found home resound 
With the tread of infant feet. 



Yet when is gathered round the hearth 

The broken family band. 
They can but mourn the missing part 

That lies in a stranger land. 



CLARA BUSH. 73 

And oft and fervent is their prayer, 

That happily for ever 
The circle may unite above, 

Where death it cannot sever. 



VERSES 

ON SEEING A DYING BIRD IN THE HANDS OF THE ARCHER. 

Poor little bird with wounded breast ! 

We'll hear its glad song no more ; 
' Neath sunny skies on free, swift wing, 

It never again will soar. 



Never again with happy mate 
' Twill pass the halcyon hours ; 

Nor revel in the golden light, 
' Mid summer's sweetest bowers. 



All soiled and torn its plumage soft, 
And the beak's agape for breath ; 

The silent throat, so dulcet once, 
Grows cold with the chill of death. 



74 POEMS BY 

Naught of sorrow the captor feels 
For the hfe so nearly slain, 

But deigns to smile on his victim, 
Tremulous with fear and pain. 



Oh ! a pitiful sight it is, 

And Mercy is prone to sigh, 

Even to know so frail a thing 
In cruel, rude hands must die. 



The meek, bright eyes close gently now, 
Lower droops the shining head, — 

A little gasp — and all is still ; 
The dear pretty bird is dead. 



LAMENT FOR SUMMER. 

Summer is dead — lovely Summer! 

A doleful knell is ringing, 
And a low, plaintive requiem, 

Autumn's first gale is singing. 



CLARA BUSH. 75 

Oh brief was thy hfe, sweet Summer ! 

Too fair didst thou seem to die, 
"But alas ! the tomb has claimed thee, 

And there must thy beauty lie. 



We can but mourn thee, O Summer ! 

And the tears, unbidden, fall 
Upon the fast fading flowers 

That lie scattered o'er thy pall. 



We shall so miss thee, fair Summer ! 

Miss thy song-birds and flowers, 
Miss thy sweet rose-scented breezes. 

And pleasant, shady bowers. 



We had learned to love thee. Summer ! 

But like a dream that was sweet. 
Thy joys and beauties have vanished. 

All too early and too fleet. 



Though thou art gone, gentle Summer ! 

Fond mem'ry of thee will dwell 
In our loving hearts, long after 

We have breathed the sad "farewell." 



^e POEMS BY 

CALL ME NOT BEAUTIFUL. 

WRITTEN ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER A SKETCH OF MY LIFE UNDER 
THE CAPTION OF ■ ' ThE BeAUTIFUL INVALID." 

I would not have them call me fair; 

I covet not to own 
A title that will vanish when 

Life's summer days have flown : 
Oh, no; I'd wish a higher fame, 
Than may be found in beauty's name. 

If in my bosom there might dwell 

The light of holy love ; 
And ev'ry thought and feeling be 

As pure as those above — 
O, then I'd prize a fame, whose birth 
Came from a soul of noble worth. 



GOING AWAY. 



The following verses were s6flt in a letter to a friend, who had informed 
me that he soon would leave his native country for foreign lands. 

Going away — from home and friends 

Going away! 
In far-off, untried stranger lands, 

Lonely to stray. 



CLARA BUSH. 77 

Going away! — these brief words chill 

The tender heart, 
And touch it with a pensive thrill 

In ev'ry part. 



Going away ! — but thus is life, 

Friendship's bright band 

Is severed in the changeful strife, 
By Fate's rude hand. 



Going away ! — yet not to be 
As one unknown; 

Many will kindly think of thee 
When thou art srone. 



Going away! — these words, alas! 

Are linked with pain; 
Footsteps must oft the threshold pass, 

Nor come aeain. 



Going away ! — O, I would ask 
That fate be kind; 

And may you find a pleasant task, 
With peace combined. 



78 . POEMS BY 

Going away ! going away !• 

These words foretell 

The hardest word that mortals say- 
The sad ' ' farewell. " 



LET ME WEEP. 

"Let me weep, oh, let me Aveep ! 
The darkened, troublous swell, 
Of feeling's lurid fount of woes, 
That from my bosom heaves and flows, 
Can deepest anguish quell ; 
Then let me weep — let me weep. 

Let me sigh — in sadness sigh, — 
To my o'erburdened heart 
It proves a soothing balm for grief — 
An anodyne, to lend relief 

To sorrow's cureless smart; 
Then let me sigh — let me sigh. 

Let me mourn — in silence mourn; 

The doleful death-bell's knoll. 

That tells of loved ones freed from care, 



• CLARA BUSH. 79 

Is not so dread or hard to bear 
As troables of the soul ; 
Then let me mourn — let me mourn. 



Let me smile — in gladness smile, 
Even though recent tears 
Should still my cheeks and eyelids wet, 
Could I one moment but forget 
The grief of weary years — 
Then let me smile — let me smile. 



Let me sleep life's closing sleep ; 
Fainly would I repair 
To that low couch made under-ground, 
Where in a last repose is found 

Release from all earth's care, — 
Then let me sleep — let me sleep. 



A REQUEST. 



When my pulses cease their beating. 
And my lips grow still and cold, 

Close my eyelids softly, sister, 
And my hands in silence fold. 



8o POEMS B Y 

Should I die in time of flowers, 

Bring those that I thought, most fair 

And hghtly place upon my bosom, 
And twine a few in my hair. 



And when the parting moment comes, 
Ere they hide me from thy sight. 

Do not weep but gently kiss me 
As you'd kiss me a good-night. 



Let them not bear me far away 

To the city of the dead, 
But near my childhood's home, sister. 

Let them make my lowly bed. 



Perhaps ' tis only a fancy, 

But it seems my sleep will be 

Ever more calm, more gently sweet, 
If lying near home and thee. 



There sometimes come at summer eve. 

If it will not give thee pain, 
And strew bright flowers o'er the mound. 

And sing some low sweet strain. 



CLARA BUSH. 8i 

I would not have my memory 

Add one sorrow to thy heart; 
Let all thoughts of me be pleasant 

When death shall bid us part. 



Think that I am with the angels, 

That I've joined the white-robed choir, 

And that my fingers are sweeping 
The cords of a sweet-toned lyre. 



Think that Christ in love has crowned me 
With a crown of gems and gold; 

Think that I am tasting pleasures 
Sweeter than can here unfold. 



Weep not — yes, I bid thee weep not. 
When earth wraps me to her breast ; 

For "I'm weary, oh! 5^ weary, 
And ' tis there the weary rest. 



Cold though seems the grave and dreary, 
Within its gloom repose is found; 

And methinks none sleep so peaceful 
As the sleepers under-ground. 



82 POEMS BY 

MOMENTS OF JOY. 

They came to me in dreams last night — 
Sweet moments of joy 
Free from all alloy; 
I dreamed I was an angel bright, 
And upward, onward, in eager flight 
I was wafted on wings of light, 
Till safely at last 
Earth's shadows were pass'd, 
And Heaven's glory beamed in sight. 

O that beautiful, blissful land ! 
Oft have I been told 
Of the streets of gold. 
Of the pearly gates and temple grand, 
And of the shining ones that stand 
Around God's throne, " a happy band,' 
But a scene so fair 
As I witnessed there 
Defies the touch of painter's hand. • 

Such a radiant lustre lies 

O'er fount and flowers, 
And through the bowers 

Of richest green the soft 'wind sighs ; 

And fairer than Italian skies, 



CLARA BUSH. 

Penciled in a thousand dyes — 
Is the ether dome 
Of the spirit-home, 

Where raging tempests never rise. 



No harp-tones to our earth belong 

Like the melody, 

So perfect and free. 
Made when the happy angel throng 
Attune the lyre and join in song, 
First faint and low then full and strong- 

Till o'er all the plain 

The ravishing strain 
In echo sweet is borne along. 



Forgotten were all griefs below. 
When Heaven I gained- 
And the prize attained, 

The harp and crown, and robe like snow — 

And as I walked where brightly flow 

The living waters, not a woe 

Marred the perfect bliss 
No words can express, 

And which only the blest can know. 



84 POEMS BY 

While thinking o'er my dream to-day 
Earth seems less dreary, 
I feel less weary, 
Life's cross grows lighter and a ray 
Of joyous light illumes my way, 
For, by-and-by, I trust I may 
Gladly realize 
My dream of the skies, 
And there abide in peace for aye. 



FRAGMENTS OF THOUGHT. 

Meek was the Messiah, the King of kings; 

Robed in righteousness — love's sceptre bearing 
Came He to earth on mercy's gentle wings, 

Life eternal bringing, — content in sharing 
All tribulation, with death and the grave, 
Ungodly nations to ransom and save ! 



Dear was the price of mortal redemption ; 

Enlisted in the warfare of the Lord, 
Journeying on to holy exemption — 

Be the name of Jesus our one pass-word ! 
Evermore with God will the faithful live. 
Little is asked — just our poor heart to give. 



CLARA BUSH. 85 

THE SKEPTIC. 

Cold was the skeptic's heart. He would not trust 
A wise Creator, merciful and just. 
Possessed of noble intellect, the mind — 
Through mystic mazes roaming, sought to find 
A /till revealing of God's secret will ! 
Justice and truth were questioned oft, until 
Fancy could find no resource ; and a gloom, 
Darker and deeper, veiled his final doom. 
A dreary void for vain, untrustful thought, 
Years of profoundest research only brought. 



MAN. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Man, mysterious work of the All-wise, 

Reigned first a sinless soul in Paradise ; 

Cast out from thence, when he God's laws transgressed, 

A vagrant he wandered, forlorn, oppressed. 

Alas! how sad his doom! — but lo, afar 

Upon time's dim horizon shone one star ; 

Dark though the cloud of destiny its ray 



86 POEMS BY 

Effulgent gleamed, to light the mourner's way. 

Joyous star — hope of immortality, 

Blest harbinger of life's reality ; 

Ever may this beacon-light brightly shine, 

Lighting the way to God's own holy shrine, — 

Life here but preludes the life that's divine. 



THOUGHTS 

After reading Milton's " Paradise Lost ;" written at thirteen yearsjof age. 

Milton ! the name is immortalized, 
' Twill ever shine as bright as now, 

For the laurels are amaranthine 

That srenius wreathed around his brow. 



Modern poets need not aspire 

To reach the summit of his fame, 

For none there be that can attain 
So heavenly, so grand a name. 

In words majestic and sublime 
Of the sad fall of man he sung, 

And how o'er Eden's sunny bower 
The serpent old a shadow flung. 



CLARA BUSH. 87 

Let those who love true poetry 

In concord grateful voices raise, 
And to the gifted, sainted author. 

Of " Paradise Lost" give praise. 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND. 

Dear Friend, while crossing life's great sea 

May Fate most kindly pilot thee; 

It is the earnest wish of mine 

That a happy voyage be thine ; 

Yet, should clouds gather o'er the deep, 

And rude winds round thy, frail bark sweep — 

May sweet Hope shed a golden ray. 

To light and cheer thee on thy way ! 

Let courage not thy bosom fail. 

But bravely battle with the gale ; 

Shrink not from perils of the main. 

If thou a rich reward would gain; 

Ye soon will land : and, glancing back 

Upon the rocky, storm-beat track, 

Ecstatic joy will thrill thy soul. 

For then thou wilt have reached thy goal ! 

And all the dangers — all the fears. 

And all the strife of weary years. 

Will be forgotten in the clime 

That lies beyond the strands of Time. 



POEMS BY 
THOUGHTS. 

Suggested by a sea-shell, a tribute from Mr. Claude J. Bell. 

A shell from the deep lay on the strand, 

Hidden half by the silvery sand : 
But some passer-by 
Chanced it there to spy, 

And now I claim it — a treasure grand. 

O thou beautiful, pearly shell ! 

Tell me — tell me what mysteries dwell 

In the fathomless 

And fearful abyss 
Of mighty ocean ! O, prithee, tell. 

Thy home has been in the inmost sea. 
And thou hast learned its deep mystery ; 

All its secrets old 

To thee have been told 
By the wild wave's mystic minstrelsy. 

A whisper of joy — a sigh of pain. 

From the shell now comes, like the refrain 

Of a sweet, sad song 

That is borne along 
By softest winds o'er a southern main. 



CLARA BUSH. 89 

Listening, I place it close to mine ear, 
The voice of the distant sea to hear; 

And each rising wave, 

As it comes to lave 
The bright, sandy beach seems rushing near. 

I've read how passing lovely and grand 
Is the scene at eve on the ocean's strand ; 

Yet ' tis not for me 

Its beauty to see, 
And from books but little understand. 



As I lie on my weary couch, and dream. 
In fancy I catch the golden gleam 

Of the sun's last ray 

As it gilds the spray, 
And throws o'er the surf its rosy beam. 

I'd love, at the close of summer day, 
With some dear friend by the sea to stray, 

And gather a store 

Of shells from the shore, 
Till twilight should fade in night away. 

And I've sometimes thought that sweet 'twould be. 
Awhile to linger alone by the sea. 



90 POEMS BY 

And list to the tone 
As the waters moan, 
And echo a wondrous symphony. 

When skies are fair at calm of night, 
And Luna's mild and silvery light 

Is softly shed 

O'er the ocean's bed, 
O, how beautiful must be the sight ! 

But when bleak storm-clouds lower .o'erhead, 
And wild raging winds around are spread, 

And the high waves roar 

And beat the shore. 
Oh, then the scene must be weird and dread. 

Sad echoes tell of the dead who sleep 
In the ocean's caverns, dark and deep ; 

Whose tenderest dirge 

Is sung by the surge 
Of restless waters that onward sweep. 

Ah me! I can feel the tear-drops start. 
As I think how many a noble heart 
Mid the ocean's gloom 
Fills a nameless tomb, 
No more to be of our life a part. 



CLARA BUSH. 91 

Oh treacherous and cruel sea ! 
Oh beauteous yet inconstant sea ! 

So joyous at times, 

With merriest chimes, 
Then drear is its wail of misery. 



And such is life's sea — not always bright, 
But oft its waves are sable as night ; 

Then vainly I steer 

Its perils to clear, 
With no beacon to guide me aright. 



I shudder to hear the angry gale 
O'ersweep my bark as I onward sail, 
And long for the calm 
When zephyrs of balm 
Shall bear me gently to Lethe's vale. 



ALBUM VERSES. 



Dear Clarabelle, words scarce can tell 
The good I wish to thee : 

From all the strife and ills of life 
I'd leave thee ever free. 



92 POEMS BY 

No tear of woe should ever flow, 
To dim thy gladsome eye; 

Grief ne'er should blight one sweet delight, 
Nor clouds o'ercast thy sky. 



From harm secure 'mid pleasures pure, 

In pleasant paths and fair 
Should tend thy feet, and blessings sweet 

Await thee ev'rywhere. 



Upon thy brow, so sinless now, 

No shade of guile should rest ; 

And not a thought by love untaught, 
Find harbor in thy breast. 



Serene and bright, devoid of night. 
Like endless summer day. 

In perfect joy without alloy 

Should pass thine hours away. 



May saints above watch thee in love, 
And guard with tender care, 

Till called from earth in spirit birth 
Heaven's own bliss to share. 



CLARA BUSH. 93 

FRIENDSHIP. 

Pleasure 'twould give, when friendship's list, years hence we 

reckon o'er. 
Recorded there to find no name proves false the badge it wore ; 
O great and loyal is the heart that's true to.ev'ry trust ! 
Fair laurels well might deck the brows of those to friendship just ; 
A loving word and kindly aid, for weary ones oppress'd, 
Joy and hope will oft renew within the troubled breast. 
Faithfully may we ever strive to lessen others' woe — 
Deeper may the gentle tide of tenderest feelings flow : 
Although our praises strangers speak and nations learn our fame. 
Yet in our hearts a void would be, without sweet friendship's name 



ONE YEAR AGO. 

REMINISCENCE OF DEC. 22, 1878 WRITTEN DEC. 22, 1879. 

Musing alone memory wanders 
Back to to-day, one year ago ; 

One year ago ! — how swnftly down 

Life's course the fleeting moments flow ! 

The intervening space has seemed 
So short a lapse, that even yet 

r see the forms — the voices hear — 

Of those v\ ho then were round me met. 

'Twas in this very room, — without 
Blew chillingly the wintry air ; 

Yet love's sunlight as brightly fell, 
As when the summer-skies were fair. 



94 POEMS BY 



A social band of friends it was, 
Some old and true and ever dear ; 

And some were new, but well have proved 
The test of one departed year. 

Pondering now, I can recall 

How passed the pleasant hours away, — 
Remembrance well portrays the scene, 

As it was pictured on that day. 

Congenial all, with thoughts to please, 
For love and good will held their swa}' ; 

The graver hearts laid by their griefs, 
Cheered with a reflex from the gay. 

Some held converse, or joined in song. 
And some rehearsed weird legends old ; 

And others, come from distant climes. 
Strange, thrilling tales of travel told. 

And one* a little poem read, 

While silence reigned that all might hear ; 
The pleasing rhythm and tone of voice 

Seem now to fall upon my ear. 

I think me of this poem oft, — 

'Tis that of Poe's about "The Bells," 

In fancy now a requiem 

For the dead years their echo knells. 



*Capt. A. ,1. F. Day. 



/ 



CLARA BUSH. 95 

One year ago ! I note the time : 

So fast the pleasant moments sped 
That almost eve I was aware 

The night was cotjne — the day was fled ! 

One year ago ! — these little words, 
Anon, anon, repeats my heart; 
• Friends that here met one year ago^ 
Are scattered — sundered far apart. 

O retrospective thought, how sad 

And yet how sweet to glance aback ! 

Though widely severed thus, not yet 
Have any fallen in the track 

Not many social bands, I ween. 

That met to-day, one year agone, 
Can reck their cherished number o'er 

And haply find the missing none. 

Fate has dealt gently, but I sigh 

To think, perchance, another year 
Will sadder changes bring, and leave 

A void made by the laded bier. 

Another year ! what does it hold ? 

What is its store of joy and grief? 
In life's great book what will be traced 

Upon the new, unwritten leaf.'* 

We can't divine : there falls a veil 

Before our view, and we must wait 
The interlapse of time, to see 

What weal or woe will portion fate. 



96 POEMS BY 

THE WINDS OF THE SEASONS. 

Sweet is the spring breeze's whisper ; 

In the vernal hours, 
From golden morn unto vesper, 

Amid the bowers 
They w ooingly nestle ; and press, 
With many a tender caress. 
Nature's children of loveliness — 

The buds and flowers. 



Soft is the summer wind's blowing, 
When closes the day, 

Like sounds of melody flowing 
In tenderest lay — 

They have an influence thrilling. 

Ever the troubled heart filling 

With purer, tranquiller feeling, 
By tl.eir gentle sway. 



Sad is the autumn gales' sighing ; 

O'er the land they sweep. 
Leaving all lovely things lying 

In death's lowly sleep ! 
Nor pause they one moment, grieving. 
But quickly speed onward, leaving 
Full many a bosom heaving 

With a sorrow deep. 



CLARA BUSH. 97 

Drear is the winter blasts' wailing ; 

Like merciless foe, 
The uplands and vales assailing, 

They pass to and fro ! 
With breathings icy and chilling. 
Of quick decay is their telling ; 
The mission assigned their filling 

Is darkened with woe. «- 



O, sweet spring breezes, how cheering 
Their whispers to hear ! 

O, summer winds, how eadearing 
Their voices anear ! 

But alas ! the autumn gales', sighing, 

Tell of the fading — the dying ; 

And dismal winter blasts, flying, 
Chant requiems drear. 



MUSIC. 

Pleasing music ; — summer's breeze 
Stealing through the leafy trees ; 
Mournful music; autumn's gale. 
Sweeping, sighing o'er the vale. 



98 POEMS BY 

Artless music; — drops of rain 
Tinkling fast against the pane, — 
Patter, patter, drops so small. 
Light but cheery is their fall. 



Merry music ; — notes that fill 
All the air when blithe birds trill 
Matin songs or latest lay, 
At the trahquil close of day. 



Mellow music ; — murmurs low 
Of the rip'ling streams that flow 
Through the wood or mossy dell, 
Where, 'tis told, the fairies dwell. 



Solemn music; — the echo 
Of the ocean's ebb and flow; 
Deep and full from shore to shore 
Sounds its never-ceasins" roar. 



Cheering music ; the refrain 
Of the viol's lively strain 
Rising, falling, in accord 
With the carol of each word. 



CLARA BUSH. 

Happy music ; — children's feet 
Tripping gay along the street. 
And their ringing laughs of glee 
Pealing forth from light hearts free. 



Holy music ; — words of prayer 
Rising on the vesper air 
From the lips of infant young, 
That has yet a lisping tongue. 



Saddest music ; — that which flows 
From the soul of many woes. 
As it tells in broken strains 
All its cureless griefs and pains. 



Welcome music; — voices sweet 
Of belov'd ones that greet ; 
Gentle words of friends most dear, 
How we love their tones to hear ! 



Sacred music; — songs of praise 
That God's devotees upraise, — 
Harmonies that spread and rise, 
Till they traverse earth and skies. 



99 



loo POEMS BY 

Doleful music ; — steeple bells 
When of death their tolling tells,- 
Warning to each heedless heart 
That death holds for it a part. 



Blissful nnusic ; — bells that call 
To God's worship great and small ; 
Far and near their chimes resound, 
Where the love of Truth is found. 



Seraph music ; — fancied tones 
Falling from ethereal zones ; 
When the soul holds high commune 
Then is heard this sweet attune. 



Magic music ; — sounds we feel 
Faint through airy regions steal, — 
Strange harp echoes that we hear 
Even thousfh no minstrel's near. 



Mystic music : — that which falls 
On the ear when sleep inthralls 
Waking thoughts, and with its sway 
Bears us to dream-realms away. 



CLARA BUSH. loi 

Ether music ; — tunes that float 
Through the air with faintest note — 
Symphonies, Hke elfin stroke 
Cords of unseen harp awoke. 

Fairy music ; — whispers heard 
When at night the air is stirred 
By the phantom crowds that glide 
On the moonlight's silver tide. 

Music ! ah, Creation's rife 

With this siren-charm of life ; 

And its voice is ever near, ^ 

Had we but the ear to hear. 



A LETTER 



to miss alice o daniel, while a member of the m. c. f. 
institute, jackson, tennessee. 

Dear Alice : 

To pleasantly pass the time, 
I'll write you a letter in simple rhyme ; 
Yet fear you'll but little interest find 
In the random thoughts that may come to mind. 
I lie on the couch where so long I've lain, 



102 POEMS BY 

And gaze through the window again and again " 

The scene from without is far from fair, 

Not a leaflet green or floweret is there, — 

'Tis a bleak and dreary December day, 

Storm-clouds have hidden the sun's golden ray, 

While slowly and softly float the snow-flakes down, 

Whitening the earth and old trees brown. 

Chilling winds sweep through the verdureless vale, 

Over hills and plains they pass with a wail ; 

From leafless branches the song-birds have flown, 

To some fairer clime they have long since gone ; 

How sadly I miss their once joyous lays, 

That sweetly were trilled on calm summer days ! 

And O how I long for winter to flee, 

That again they may come with songs of glee. 

But enough repining, — within my room 

Is more of comfort, of beauty and bloom. 

My vases are yet filled with flowers fair. 

That have been kept fresh by a sister's care, — 

A late blown rose and honeysuckle spray 

Prettily nestle amid the array 

Of showy chrysanthemums of all hues, 

And fairest evergreens fancy could choose. 

And then I have some geraniums, too, 

Which in the warm summer days. stately grew; 

A few of their dainty blooms linger yet, 

As if fain to woo my heart to forget 

That storm-winds a requiem sing o'er the bed 



CLARA BUSH. 

Where ill-fated blossoms lie faded and dead. 

You know how well I love the bright flowers, 

They make less gloomy the wearisome hours, 

And sighs will come that I cannot refrain 

When icy winds wail o'er Flora's fair train. 

But such pensive thoughts as these, Alice dear, 

Will make your happy heart mournful, I fear, 

And to pleasantly change my theme will say 

I've had a late call from our friend, Capt. Day. 

He was in his usual talkative mood, 

And I entertained him as best I could ; 

The topics discussed were varied, quite, 

Some of the logical — some of the trite. 

His views on theology seem steadfast, 

And are the same as when you saw him last. 

He is still professor at Mason Hall, 

And is doing much for the progress of all. 

He is to give a lecture on Christmas eve, 

And concert by the pupils, I believe, 

I've written an acrostic in his name, 

And will send you a copy of the same. 

Have also written a poem this week, 

And read a nice romance, of which I would speak ; 

I think you would like it ; the scenes belong 

To Italy — the land of art and song. 

The work is simply entitled "Corinne," 

And fairer heroine never was seen, — 

A perfect ideal of female grace, 



103 



104 POEMS BY 

Symmetrical form and angelic face ; 
All lovers of beauty might well admire, 
And quite well written is the work entire. 

Lately I finished the poems of Scott, 
Do not know whether you've read them or not ; 
If not, and you have a fancy for rhyme, 
Just read his "Lady of the Lake" sometime. 
Yet some may admire his "Marmion" more. 
While others his "Rokeby" might adore, 
But of all his poems — if I may test, 
The "Lady of the Lake" is far the best. 
The writings of Shakspeare I'll next peruse, 
Then those of Milton, so grand and profuse, 
(Have read the latter, but wish to review,) 
We have rhymers many, but Miltons few ; 
A royal library his works would grace, 
And first among poets might well find a place. 

dearly I love the bards of the past ; 

1 never weary of their volumes vast ; 
The tenderest pleasures I oft can find 

In tracing the thoughts of a soul-lit mind ; 
This sorrowful life I scarce could endure. 
Deprived of the joys of literature. 

Dear Alice, I think of the days you were here 
As among the happiest of the year. 



CLARA BUSH. 105 

All too swiftly seemed the hours to glide, 

Far too quickly came the dim even-tide ; 

Memory brings back the words that were said, — 

We talked of the living and dear ones dead. 

Of fair scenes vanished to come not again, 

Of life's many changes, its joys and pain ; 

Of books and flowers, of music and song, 

Of what we thought right and what we thought wrong ; 

And then a blithe little song you sang — 

How joyous the tra la la's out-rang ! 

\p. pleasing fancy even now I hear 

Faint musical echoes fall on my ear. 

I think of you oft and know that each day 

Some progress you're making in wisdom's fair way ; 

But lest I infringe too much on your time. 

Or weary you with a lengthier rhyme — 

Will close by asking you early to write ; 

And Vt^hen you shall have gained your honors bright, 

And return to your home, from school-days free, 

Come to see yours lovingly, 

Clara B. 



io6 POEMS BY 

REFLECTIONS. 

ON NEW year's day, 1 882. 

Behold ! the Old Year is dead. Time has cast 
A dark pall over it. No requiem 
Is sung, save by winter's bleak winds. Dead leaves 
And withered flowers lie heaped on the tomb, 
And all is desolation. Ah, who will mourn 
For the old dead year? Not many, I ween. 
Will heave one sigh to think it is no more. 
It held so much crime, and so deeply pierced 
The nation's warm heart with sorrow's keen spear, 
That we say "farewell" with little regret. 
Save for hours misspent — precious hours ever gone 
From life's numbered years, that might have been filled 
To some better end. But, lo, the New Year 
Follows close in the train of the one just flown. 
How shall we spend it? to ourselves alone? 
No ; but to the good of others let us fill 
The golden moments of the glad New Year. 
Let us sow good seeds in life's harvest field, 
And do kindly deeds, thus making amends 
For time illspent. If Ave've needlessly pained 
The bosoms of any, or failed to aid 
The weary with burdens more grievous than ours, — 
If we've harshly spoken, or left unsaid 
Words that would have gladdened some aching heart, — 



CLARA BUSH. . 107 

If we've buried our talents, or left blank 

One page in life's book that might have been traced 

With honors well won — oh, then we have failed 

In our duty to God, ourselves, and kind. 

But the present is ours. Let us to-day 

Ask our Creator the past to forgive. 

And aid us henceforth in doing His will. 

We have murmured at fate, wondering why 

We have been so chastened and oft oppressed; 

We have had losses ; the cold sod covers 

Dear friends who loved us and friends that we loved ; 

Sweet joys have fled, and bright hopes lie buried 

In the darksome tomb of the old dead year. 

Most truly has old Eighty-one been called 

A year of disaster. The wail of woe 

Has echoed o'er the land, and Sin's dark trace 

Been stamped on the ruins of ruthless Time. 

Yet let us trust that the New Year will hold 

Sorrows not many and joys manifold. 

May Heaven's blessings be shed o'er our land. 

And the spirit of Love in triumph reign 

On the throne of our nation, and sweet Peace \ 

Entwine the olive the monarch to crown. 

Let us pause and think. 'Tis a day to spend 

In solemn meditation. " Growing old, " 

Is echoed in the heart, and on the brow 

Indelibly written. Yes, day by day. 

We all are growing old. No power of earth 



io8 . POEMS BY 

Can fetter the sweeping pinions of Time, 

Nor stay his flight one moment. The rude waves 

Of Hfe's stormy main swiftly bear us on, 

And near and nearer our barques drift ever 

To eternity's landing. We know not 

How far away lies the unknown shore. Dark 

And dense are the shadows that intervene. 

It may be weeks, months, years, ere we anchor, 

Yet, perhaps, ere to-morrow's dawn we will see 

The beacon ahead, and the harbor gain. 

A strange feeling steals o'er me as I think 

Of the many millions of frail barques afloat 

On the wild, wide waste of life's troublous deep. 

Piloted by Fate, and my heart cries out, 

" O Heaven — kind Heaven — pity and save!" 

But, hark ! joyous tones ring out on the air, 

" A happy New Year! a happy New Year!" 

The steeple bells are merrily chiming, 

And my heart echoes back ' ' A happy New Year. ' 



CLARA BUSH. 109 

STANZAS. 

Inscribed to the Rutherford Cornet Band, for the kindly courtesy it dis- 
played in visiting iny home, October 5, 1879, and performing for my special 
interest. Having never before heard the sound of the cornets, it proved a 
pleasing novelty, and those acquainted with my life's sad history, can better 
understand my feeling of gratitude for the compliment so generovisly 
conferred. 

It was in the early autumn, 

When the Day repose had found, 
. And Night, in luminous vesture. 

And starry coronal crowned, 
Had appeared in all her grandeur. 

To reign as queen o'er the land ; 
And Nature lay gently sleeping. 

Hushed by her tender command. 

Not a voice was heard, save whispers 

The wind-caressed leaflets made ; 
And away to realms ideal 

Had thought reflectively strayed, 
When, hark ! strange sounds of music 

On the breezes came afloat, — 
While I lent an ear attentive, 

To catch each faint falling note. 

At first they seemed but as echoes, 

AAvaft from the fairy zones, 
So silently fell the cadence 



no POEMS BY 

Of the far-off dulcet tones ; 
But closer they drew — and closer — 

Till the notes rose full and clear, 
And accordant sounds repeated 

The air to song ever dear. 

The sweet " Bye-and-Bye" resounded, 

Till my soul took up the theme, 
And sang it over, till Heaven 

Seemed nearer our earth to gleam ; 
And my heart beat half forgetful 

Of its weariness and pain, 
So hopeful, and peace-inspiring. 

Was the purport of the strain. 

Then " Home, Sweet Home!" welcome greeting - 

Was more softly now proclaimed ; 
The love of nations has made it 

The spot of all earth most famed ; 
But when comes the voice of music, 

Its hallowed praise to tell, 
'Tis then, with holy emotions, 

The revering heart doth swell. 

To air after air I hearkened, — 

Some low, som.e lofty and free ; 
Yet all of a wondrous beauty. 



CLARA BUSH. iii 

Not before revealed to me. 
Too soon each closing melody 

Revoked its metrical flow; 
But the thrillings of joy given, 

Fond memory long will know. 

When the light wings of the breezes 

Bore away the last refrain, 
And Night, in her queenly splendor, 

Had resumed her quiet reign, — 
Again my fancies went roaming. 

As wonted to roam before — 
Off from the land of the real, 

The ideal to explore. 

My heart had been so enraptured 

By music's soul-cheering thrill, 
That calmer, happier feelings. 

In my bosom lingered still. 
But sleep, asserting its power, 

Threw a veil o'er waking thought; 
And wrapt in the folds of slumber, 

I was thence to dream-realms caught. 

Yet even in that dominion. 

Where but phantom scenes appear, 
The faintest, sweetest attunings. 



112 POEMS BY 

Came filling the airy sphere. 
The low and symphonious measures, 

That soothed me still while sleeping, 
Were but unforgotten echoes, 

My memxDry o'ersweeping. 

Oh, music, how great its power ! 

It comes with blessings and cheer ; 
While awak^e we gladly hail it, 

In dreams it is ever dear. 
' Tis for earth-tones of melody, 

Re-echoed in far dreamland — 
This humble tribute I offer 

The Rutherford Cornet Band. 



TOUCH NOT. 



The following stanzas were written for the Tennessee Good Templar, a 
Nashville paper devoted to the cause of Temperance, and appeared in its 
columns dui'ing the year of 1880 under the nom deplume of " Charity." 

Touch not strong drink! — consummate woe 
Is hidden in its tinted glow ; 

Pen cannot trace 
The mighty multitude of sins, 
To which its dire influence tends ; 
While untold misery it sends 

The human race. 



CLARA BUSH. 113 

Touch not strong drink! — the sparkHng glass 
Is fraught with perils — onward pass! 

Dare not to sip 
The poisoned draught, for it will bring 
Distress more dread than serpent's sting, 
Then oh let not the venomed thing 

Defile thy lip. 

Touch not strong drink! — by any name 
It is an evil much the same ; 

Let not its charm 
Allure thee even once to stray 
Into its soul-benighting way, 
Or it may hold thee in its sway, 

To fraud and harm. 

Touch not strong drink! — in deep disguise, 
It is a fiend that lurking lies, 

Swift to betray 
Unwary ones in subtle foil, 
To take away all precious spoil — 
As vipers wait in ready coil 

To smite their prey. 

Touch not strong drink! — my friends, beware! 
Lest it decoy thee in its snare ; 
Oh, turn aside. 



114 POEMS BY 

And seek the paths of virtue bright, 
Which are illumed with holy light; 
No evil, if you walk aright, 
Will e'er betide. 

Touch not strong drink! — pause not to gaze 
Upon the lustre of its rays, 

Lest by device 
Thy heart, in an unguarded hour, 
May bow submissive to its power. 
Like as foe in Eden's bower 

Did Eve entice. 

Touch not strong drink! — it will debase- 
The purest life, and bring disgrace 

On fairest name, 
That might, with honor spreading wide, 
Become a nation's help and pride ; 
Not even can love's pinions hide 

Its mark of shame. 

Touch not strong drink! — it steals away 
The precious light of reason's ray ; 

To eyes once bright 
It gives a blank, unmeaning stare, 
And horrid makes, beyond compare, 
The look of man; — spare me, oh spare. 

The loathsome si^ht. 



CLARA BUSH. 115 

Touch not strong drink! — a burning brand 
It holds within a latent hand, 

To put on fire 
The temple of the mind, when, oh ! 
The lofty dome is soon brought low,— 
A mighty wreck — a scene of woe, 

Doleful and dire. 

Touch not strong drink! — by crafty stealth 
It takes the soul's diviner wealth, 

And stores with crime 
The coffers of the heart ; the Right 
It turns to Wrong, and virtue's light 
Casts in eclipse, and stamps with blight 

The fruits of Time. 

Touch not strong drink ! — ills manifold 
Are kept within its spacious hold ; 

The seeds of sin 
Upon the heart's best soil it sows. 
And nourished by the fount of woes. 
Penury in abundance grows, 

To famish men. 

Touch not strong drink! — it is a foe, 
Armed well to strike vast empires low ; 
Flame-pointed darts 



ii6 POEMS BY 

With surest aim it hurls around, 
Its victims writhe in torture bound, 
And fatal proves the canker wound 
To stoutest heart. 

Touch not strong drink ! — 'tis known of proof 
It harms not those who keep aloof, 

But, cross its track. 
And vengeful legions marshalled stand 
To slay thee at their chief's command; 
Hardly might an archangel's hand 

Reclaim thee back. 

Touch not strong drink ! — when tempted most. 
Reflect how great may be the cost 

Of just one glass; 
Step by step from that first drink. 
Might lead thee on to ruin's brink. 
And in the depths of anguish sink 

Thy soul — alas ! 

Touch not strong drink! — it metes to man 
Destruction — meed for his oivn plan 

In search of pelf; 
Alas ! that earth's involving ill 
Should be the force of human will, — 
How sad to make employ of skill 

To murder self! 



CLARA BUSH. 117 

Touch not strong drink ! — though seeming pure 
' Tis mixed with poison, strict and sure 

To bring death's doom : 
To many modes it doth conform 
To complicate its work of harm ; 
And with an eager, ruthless arm, 

Hollows the tomb. 

Touch not strong drink ! — on blazoned throne, 
Mocking a vassal's dying groan. 

The death-king reigns; 
Though it assumes the guise of wine. 
Or wears a semblance more divine — 
To wreck the world is its design, 

Whate'er it feigns. 

Touch not strong drink ! — but wield a hand 
To sweep the curse from off the land ; 

Be wise — be brave ! 
Guard most judiciously thy will. 
Let not the demon of the still 
Crush down thy god-like form, to fill 

A drunkard's grave. 



ii8 POEMS BY 

FLOWERS. 

Oft in praise of floral treasures 

Bards have tuned their harps and sung ; 

But their true worth cannot be told 
By dulcet note or gifted tongue. 

Still we seek to find a language, 

Tender feelings to express ; 
Yet words come not at our bidding 

To unfold our thankfulness. 

They are indeed a precious gift, 

A blessing sent from above 
By the good and kindly Father, 

To tell us of His great love. 

Like sunbeams bursting through the clouds, 
All gloom from earth to banish, 

The influence of flowers fair 
'Has power sad thoughts to vanquish. 

' Tis true their fading petals teach 
A lesson we sigh to learn, — 

They tell us in silent whispers 
That to dust we must return. 



CLARA BUSH. 119 

Yet when they bloom again, our land 

With fresh beauty to kdorn — 
' Tis then they whisper hopefully 

Of the resurrection morn ! 

Well may we love them though transient, 

They make life seem less dreary ; 
They cast a halo round our hearts, 

And cheer us oft when weary. 

Of the entire race of flowers 

Not one should we quite condemn, 
From the rudest roadside blossom 

To the florest's richest gem. 

Even the homeliest flower 

Has something that we would prize, 
Did not those that were more fragrant 

And more lovely meet our eyes. 



THE BLIGHTED BUD. 

Simple my theme : yet sages might 
Volumes in hving language write 
Even of a budding flower. 
That perished in untimely hour. 



120 POEMS BY 

Not mine their fame ; I will not soar 
To scale the heights of knowledge o'er, 
But condescend to simply tell 
The fate of flower loved so well. 



It was a rare, exotic gem — 
A fair magnolia bud — whose stem 
Was circled round with leaves of green 
That seemed wrapt in emerald sheen. 



A kindly friend placed in my hand 
The folded bud, brought from a land 
Of southern beauty where, 'tis told, 
The fairest flowers of earth unfold. 



Only to please, the gift was meant, 
And for a while a joy it lent ; 
Its spreading fragrance — rich, intense — 
Perfumed the air like sweet incense. 



My roving fancy drew a scene 
Of mildest clime, where intervene 
No wintry days, but where a balm 
Is wide diffused at even's calm. 



CLARA BUSH. ' 121 

And where aurora's dawning light 
Gilds the quivering dew-drops bright, 
That bedeck the snowy bosoms 
Of the sweet magnolia blossoms. 



Methought, indeed, it were a bliss 
To dwell in such a land as this, — 
A fragrant, sunny, tranquil clime, 
Of perpetual summer-time. 



I watched my treasure day by day, 
Hoping ere long 'twould fold away 
Its petals white from off its heart, 
And all its grace and sweets impart. 



But ah ! too oft we find that here 
The smile is banished by the tear ; 
And what to-day seems only joy, 
The morrow may with grief alloy. 



My tender bud, so white and fair, 
I sought to cherish with all care, 
Until, alas ! I found one day 
' Twas slowly fading to decay. 



122 . POEMS BY 

Then trembled on my lips a sigh, 
To think 'twas fated thus to die 
And ne'er unclose its secret seal, 
Its hidden beauties to reveal. 

Far from its sunny home away, 
It pined on natal branch to sway ; 
Its snowy petals would not ope, 
But faded — blighting fondest hope. 

With all its sweetest charms untold, 
Enwrapt in shroud of softest fold, 
It dropped into an early tomb — 
Type of humanity's sure doom ! 

This fitting type, by Flora taught, 
Mortals should give most heedful thought, 
For true it is " the course of man, 
From life to death, is but a span." 

Yet when the misty vale we cross. 
Unmindful of all earthly loss. 
Triumphant o'er death and the tomb. 
The soul will live in fadeless bloom. 



CLARA BUSH. 123 

THOUGHTS 

jOccasioned by a dainty cluster of early spring flowers, presented by my 
little friend, Annie Thomas, 

To-day I clasp withm my fingers 

Some little sprays of early flowers, — 

Spring's Jirst tribute, so pleasing to view 
After chill winter's cheerless hours. 

The loving hands of gentle Annie 
These floral gems together bound ; 

The richest hues of rainbow splendor 
In pleasing contrast here are found. 

Expressive of a mind aesthetic, 

Exquisitely their colors blend ; 
While I gaze a happier feeling 

To my sorrowing heart they lend. 

I prize them with a twofold fondness ; 

First, just for themselves I love them, 
Next, because they are a token 

Of the love of her who gave them. 

Of all beauteous things created, 

Nothing there is that may compare 

With the flowerets' modest graces. 
And their varied tintings rare. 



124 POEMS B-Y 

To me these fragile, fragrant racemes* 
Drooping low and lightly pressing 

Against my liand their blushing petals, 
Seem like things of life caressing. 



They have a quaint, unwritten language, 
Words whispered only to the heart. 

For it alone is comprehensive 

Of the deep meaning they impart. 



These open blooms, and buds unfolding, 
Bear to me a silent message, — 

Sweet sympathy and fond affection, 
All of love's attributes they presage. 



What were dear Annie's thoughts, I wonder, 
As she culled each little blossom ? 

Doubtless they were pure and holy. 
Fit to dwell in angel's bosom. 



Perhaps she whispered, " May these flowers, 

With their beauty, hght again 
Darksome shadows that have gathered 

O'er my poor friend's couch of pain." 



CLARA BUSH. 125 

And, perchance, the sigh of pity 

Stirred their dainty petals lightly, 
As she thought no more I'd wander 

Where they open, O ! so brightly. 



For her young heart is very tender, 

' And formed to sympathize with grief; 
She knows my sad life's mournful story — 
Knows my days of joy how brief 



Fain would she lessen my afflictions. 
Fain my sufferings lighter make. 

And the slumbering love of living 
Again within my soul awake. 



Alas ! dear Annie, never, never, 
Can I feel glad like others feel ; 

Life's joys to me are but as shadows, 
And on my heart is sorrow's seal. 



Others brood o'er the days of childhood, 
Whose bliss survives the lapse of years ; 

But ah, those days to me were only 
Wearisome days of pain and tears, — 



126 POEMS BY 

Wearisome days, save just the fewest 
That lent a gleam to life's first dawn, 

Then passed away like pleasing fancies 
Over the mind in dreamland thrown. 



My age scarce numbered nine short summers 
When dire affliction's blighting stroke. 

Descending with resistless power, 
Youth's cup of joy untimely broke. 



' Twas in the balmy, breezy spring-time, 
When my steps grew weary and weak ; 

And while the buds were opening brightest, 
Health's bloom was fading from my cheek. 



My feet no longer sought the greensward 
Neath the elm-trees by the brook. 

Where I'd so loved to find the daisies 
Springing fresh from every nook. 



I could no longer roam at even 
In leafy wood, and listen long 

To voice of winds and streamlet's ripple. 
Mingling with the wild-bird's song. 



/ 

CLARA BUSH. " 127 

No longer watch the sun low sinking, 
And clouds of crimson, pearl and gold. 

Encircle round the far horizon, 
Like drapery of airy fold. 



Shut in from nature's scenes of beauty. 
The glorious sunlight, earth and sky, — 

Suffering pain all skill defying, 
Oft it has been my prayer to die. 



Alas ! full many days of mourning 
Have lengthened into joyless years, 

And oft aurora's light, returning 

Has shown my pillow wet with tears. 



But cease, my heart ! cease thus lamenting. 

Why this piteous repining? 
The cloud that hangs so dark above me 

Has, I know, a silver lining. 



And just beyond life's troublous scene 
Lies for storm-tossed barks a haven. 

And those who pilot there to anchor 
To them at last will rest be given. 



128 POEMS BY 

O, the sweet voice of hope, how cheering ! 

It comes hke a strengthening balm 
Again the drooping mind to liven, 

And lend to the spirit a calm. 



A tranquil feeling, akin to joy, 
Steals soothingly over my soul. 

As I think each hour bears me nearer 
To the place of my destined goal. 



LINES 
To Miss Jessie Holmes, on receiving from her a lovely floral tribute. 

My gentle, dear-loved Jessie, 

I will essay to tell 
Something of the sensations 

That o'er my spirits fell 
When I received your tribute 

Of flowers, O ! so fair. 
And caught the rich aroma 

With which they filled the air. 



CLARA BUSH. 129 

My first thoughts were of Eden, 

Where once, beyond compare, 
Bowers of beauty blossomed 

' Neath Eve's delighted care ; 
Even the lulling breezes, 

That around me waited, 
Seemed just come from Paradise, 

All ambrosial freisfhted. 



Never was sweeter fragrance 

Than which profusely stole 
From the tuberose's bosom — 

It seemed itself a soul ! 
So full was it of power 

To thrill and elevate 
The mind from carnal feelings 

To etherial state. 



Geraniums, sweet-scented, 

A fragrancy exhaled. 
Which blended with the breathings 

Of rosebuds just unveiled ; 
And all the tinted petals 

Of roses, fuller blown, 
To my elated fancy 

Brighter than jewels shone. 



130 POEMS BY. 

Honeysuckles — some golden, 

And some of snowy white — 
Gleamed amid the leaflets green, 

Like changeful rays of light ; 
The brightness of their presence 

Fantastically spread 
A halcyon halo, round, 

Like beams from Luna shed. 



I heard the faintest whispers 

Among the floral throng — 
A euphony of voices, 

Like tones of fairy-song ! 
With listening attentive 

Their meaning I defined, 
And most sweet the sentiments 

Their mystic words combined. 



Hoarded up in memory, 

I keep a precious store 
Of things beloved the dearest 

Within the days of yore, — 
But fondest recollection 

Recalls not to my thought 
Aught sweeter than the pleasures 

Those token-flowers brought. 



CLARA BUSH. 131 

So rapt were the emotions 

With which they filled my heart 
The joy of their influence 

Forms of my life a part : 
Their delightful memory 

I'll keep brightly ever, 
Oblivion's dark shadow 

Shall obscure it never. 

I ask a benediction 

For thee, my valued friend, 
I implore that Hea\^en may 

Some holy angel send, 
As thy loving guardian. 

To guide thy steps alway, 
Till you enter in the light 

Of God's eternal day. 



LINES. 

To Miss Callie O'Daniel, expressing admiration of her pleasant and cheer- 
ful disposition. Thoughts suggested on receiving from her a dainty cluster 
of choice fall flowers. 

I had felt so sad, dear Callie, 

So weary and sad all day ; 
But the coming of your flowers 

Has made my spirits more gay. 



132 ■ POEMS BY 

A gift of fairy-like dower, 
They came with magical power ; 
And, with their pleasant revealings, 
Charmed away all gloomy feelings. 

They recall your face in fancy, 

Unknown to sorrow it seems " 
The merriest^smiles steal o'er it, 
Like ripples on sunlit streams. 
Silken curls of golden tresses 
Press your brow with soft caresses, 
And from eyes of heavenly blue 
The light of innocence shines through. 

The look of purity that gives 
Your image a grace divine, 
Is but the soul's o'erflow of love 

That no language can define. 
Though your life may not always be 
From earth's weary burdens left free. 
You will bear your cross as lightest. 
And walk in the pathways brightest. 

Your heart was not formed to repine, 
Petty griefs pass idly by. 

Over things that others lament 
You give not even a sigh ; 



CLARA BUSH. 133 

Ever kind and patient to wait — 
Ever blithe and content with fate, 
The beautiful lessons you give 
Teach others how better to live. 



Many thanks to thee, dear Callie, 

For precepts silently taught ; 
Again should I grow despondent, 

To thee will I turn my thought ; 
For I know, however dreary. 
However troubled or weary — 
To think of thy glad, sunny heart, 
Will some joy to mine own impart. 



FRIENDSHIP'S DOWER. 

I have a dainty gift, 
Kept in a little book, 

Whose leaves I oft unclose 
To take a loving look. 



'Tis not a work of gold, 
Inwrought on ribbon fair; 

Nor bit of lace antique. 
Nor braided tress of hair. 



134 POEMS BY 

Nor is it the picture 
Of some beloved face ; 

Nor a time-dimmed letter 

That some dear hand did trace. 



In my jewel casket 

Many such are hoarded, 
And no riches dearer 

Hath the world afforded. 



The relic of my theme 

Is no design of art ; 
'Twere valueless to you, 

Though precious to my heart. 



I wonder could you tell 
What may be this treasure, 

Of which I am so proud, 
And is such a pleasure. 



Now, if you knew my loves, 
I think you soon might guess 

What the snowy pages 
Seem to so fondly press. 



CLARA BUSH. i35 

But why keep you waiting ? 

I'll tell you what, in brief, 
A flower — only one, 

And a leaf — just one leaf. 



Withered now the leaflet. 
The flow'ret pale of hue. 

Yet the fragrance lingers. 

That whispers " love is true." 



Think you 'tis strange I prize 
Such seeming futile things ? 

'Tis not what men call wealth. 
That sweetest pleasure brings. 



They 're prized because they are 
Friendship's token dower, 

Bestowed with kindest aim, 
By loved Jennie Brower. 



136 POEMS BY 

INVOCATION 

ON RECEIVING AN EXQUISTELY BEAUTIFUL BOUQUET. 

Oh ye Muses! — light-winged Muses! 

Pause a moment in your flight, 
Hover close above my pillow, 

Spread o'er me your pinions bright, 
And in musical low whispers 

Teach me -how to best commend 
This fair gift, this wealth of Flora, 

Love's dear token from a friend. 



What shall I say of these rare roses, 

Fragrant all and rich of hue ? 
How describe these pinks and pansies, 

And phlox, the crimson, white and blue ? 
Where find words of suited power 

These geraniums to praise ? 
Some are are robed in pearly lustre, 

Some rival the ruby's rays. 



What grand simile is worthy 
These peonies to apply? 

Fit would be Orion's splendor 
Or the sun in zenith high. 



CLARA BUSH. 137 

And the rainbow's brightest colors 

Seem the iris to imbue, 
While syringas softly glisten 

As when star-beams gild the dew. 

The honeysuckle's deep corollas 

With verbenas mix and meet, 
And divinely are their petals, 

Infused with ambrosia sweet. 
All the glories of the sunset — 

All the beauties of the morn — 
Seem in harmony concentered. 

Buds and blossoms to adorn. 

O' er me steals a rapt sensation. 

And a speechless adoration, 
As I mark the true perfection 

Of this work of God's creation ! 
He, in goodness and great wisdom. 

Scattered germs with lavish hand, 
And the lovely race of flowers 

Sprang and grew at His command. 

Here are blooms of rare exotics, 

But their graces I must pass, 
For I can command no language 

Half their beauty to express. 



138 POEMS BY 

Thoughts that glow in mental vision. 

Find not utterance in song ; 
And my lyre, now touched for Flora, 

Seems in rudest discord strung. 

Ah ! the Muses are capricious, 

And will not draw near to-day — 
Will not listen to my pleading. 

Or atturie my grateful lay ; 
And my soul's enravished feelings, 

And the thrillings of my heart. 
Must lie as in a cavern hidden, 

Since they will not act a part. 



LINES 

On receiving a Bouquet of Flowers presented by Mrs. R. A. Tisdale. 

Come now, O, ye tuneful Muses ! 

And teach me a language meet 
To tell the glorious praises 

Of this floral tribute sweet. 

The rarest of buds and blossoms 
Their fragrance and beauty blend, 

And speak to my heart so gently 
Of a true and loving friend. 



CLARA BUSH. 139 

A lenient hand did cull them, 

And with a kindly intent 
On its gracious, goodly mission, 

Was the fair love-token sent. 



Not a gift of gold or rubies 
Could give such holy delight ; 

Far above those dazzling jewels 
I prize the flowerets bright. 



They fill my soul with a rapture 
Akin to heavenly bliss ; 

And lift my thoughts adoring 
To the God of holiness. 



My heart o'erflows with thankfulness, 
To think the same great Power, 

That rules the mighty universe, 
Created every flower. 



Our earth were far less beauteous, 
Did not the flowerets bloom. 

To brighten up its shaded spots 
And light its gathering gloom. 



I40 POEMS BY 



They make our lives the happier, 

And ever sweetly tend 
To make our hearts the purer, 

With the pleasures that they lend. 



LINES 

To Mrs. S. E. Thomas, for a gift of rare flowers. 

My dear kind friend, when I received 
Those flowers, fragrant and bright, 

There stole o'er my heart a gentle thrill 
Of mild and tranquil delight. 



I thought of God's wisdom and power, 
Thought of His mercy and love, 

And was glad to view each flower 
As a p-ift from Him above. 



And my heart was very grateful 
To Him, whose lenient hand 

Gave all the lovely, sweet blossoms. 
That deck our beauteous land. 



CLARA BUSH. 141 

Yet but for thee, my gentle friend, 

Those flowers of fairest dyes 
Would ne'er have lent me their fragrance, 

Would ne'er have gladdened my eyes. 



You thought of me, a prisoner, 
And to brighten up my cell 

And cheer my heart sent just the gift 
That you knew would please me well. 



Many thanks to thee I tender, 
For thy sweet tribute of love 

And may richest blessings ever 
Fall around thee from above. 



STANZAS 



Addressed to my friend M. P., who sent me some Beautiful Flowers, 
artistically arranged. 

B^oved friend, the flowers you sent 
Were received with greatest pleasure; 

Placed in a vase my bedside near — 
I esteem them quite a treasure. 



142 POEMS BY 

I view them over with delight, 
O what lovely groups of roses ! 

And this lily-bud, unfolding, 
An aroma rich discloses. 



Syringas white are peering through 
Their glossy leaves of tender green, 

And sweet carnations rise above 

Where pinks and bluebells bright are seen. 



Verbenas meek on slender stems 
Their pretty modest heads decline, 

While lavishly are interspersed 
The honeysuckle and woodbine. 



Lovely, priceless gems of Flora! 

Sure no jewels could be. fairer; 
Were pearls and sapphires by their side, 

Still I'd hold the flowers dearer. 



True their fragrance soon will vanish, 
For with all love's tenderest care 

They must droop and fade and wither, 
And the sad fate of beauty share. 



CLARA BUSH. 143 

Yet their memory will linger. 

And kindest thoughts of her who gave 

In my bosom long I'll cherish, 

Secure from time's devasting wave. 



VERSES, 



Suggested by some flowers that fell from the folds of a newspaper, which 
was sent by post from a distant friend. 

Lightly upon my bosom fell 

Gems of such beauty rare 
It seemed, indeed, like fairy hands 

Had dropped them gently there. 



Not sparkling jewels of the mine 
Nor ocean's wealth were they. 

But riches fairer — florets sweet, 
That bloomed in April day. 



The treasures in my hand I took, 
And though grief's darkened shade 

Hung o'er my heart, their presence dear 
Some gleams of sunlight made. 



144 POEMS BY 

The dainty blooms were fragrant yet, 
And still bright tintings wore, 

And unto me in whispered tones 
A pleasant message bore. 



They told me of an absent friend 
Whose kindly thoughts I share, 

And who would fainly make life's cross 
Less^ wearisome .to bear. 



A happy thought it was, to choose 
Bright buds and verdant leaves. 

For these have magic power to soothe 
When most my spirit grieves. 



LINES 

To Mrs. S. E. Debow — an unknown friend — on receiving from her a cluster 

of flowers. 

My unknown friend, much I thank thee 

For thy tribute of sweet flowers ; 
Methinks none lovelier e'er bloomed 

Even in fair Eden's bowers. 



CLARA BUSH. 145 

Buds and blossoms, brightly tinted, 

To me their odors sweet impart. 
And have thrown a ray of gladness 

Over my sorrow shadowed heart. 



As I look upon their beauty 

My thoughts are gently borne above. 
And each flower seems to whisper — 

So softly whisper — "God is love." 



O, the flowens — sweet, sweet flowers ! 

Shining stars our earth illuming. 
By the palace — by the cottage — 

In the field and wildwood blooming. 



Unadorned by gems of Flora 

How desolate would be our land ; 

Then let us our Creator prais'e, 

Who, all things has so wisely planned. 



Ah, lives there a soul so senseless, 
That it feels no rapt elation 

At the lovely sight of flowers. 
Fairest things of God's creation ? 



146 POEMS BY 

Life for me holds much of sadness, 
Yet my precious friends — the flowers, 

Soothe and cheer me with their presence, 
And oft beguile the weary hours. 



I listen to their whisperings, 
Sweet as an echoed fairy song ; 

And watch the bright and airy smiles 
That see~m to play their leaves among. 



O, grand and glorious their mission ! 

They come our earth to light and bless ; 
Feeble words have not the power 

How much I love them to express. 



Even when in death I slumber, 
I wish that flowerets may bloom 

Upon the bosom of my grave, 

And shed o'er me their sweet perfume. 



And may friendship twine a garland. 

To wreathe the stone that bears my name : 

If in love I am remembered 
. I care. not for a higher fame. 



CLARA BUSH. 147 

Now, my friend, again I thank thee 

For thy beauteous love-token ; 
And may affection's sacred ties 

Bind our hearts, and ne'er be broken. 



LINES 

To Mr. J. W. Hollomon, for a beautiful floral tribute. 

Kind Sir, accept my sincers thanks 
For the sweet flowers you sent ; 

Their beauty and rare lovehness 
To my life some pleasure lent. 

I kept them bright for many days. 

But, with the tenderest care, 
At last they faded, as must fade 

All things of earth, though as fair. 



Sweet flowers! they filled the mission, 
For which they so lovely grew, 

In adding purest pleasures 
To a heart that has but few. 



i4cS POEMS BY 

MAGNOLIA BLOSSOMS. 

Written oil receiving some of these magnificent blooms, the donation of 
Mr. Claude J. Bell. 

In the mild, sunny hours of May, 
They come forth in snowy array, 

And scatter to the air 

Scents deliciously rare. 
And in pride their glory display. 

How wonderful, perfect and grand, 
Is this work of our Father's hand! 
By infinite power 
Was modeled each flower, 
• To brighten arid gladden our land. 

I wonder if angels behold 
Flowers of more exquisite mould ? 

If in glad Paradise 

Fairer ones may uprise, 
Oh, how can their beauty be told ? 

As I gaze on the blossoms white, 
My soul has a feast of delight; 

From each cup's balmy brink 

Sweet elixir I drink, 
While thought takes a heavenward flight. 



CLARA BUSH. 149 

I cannot forget that above 

Reigns the. Prince of manifold love ; 

These magnolias fair 

Show His prevalent care, 
And His wisdom and mercy prove. 

So many blessings from Heaven 
To life's voyagers are given, 

That we sometimes can smile, 

And forget for awhile 
That our barks are tempest driven. 

And methinks if we only would 
Rely on the God of all good, 

It would give sweet relief; 

For earth's every grief 
Is a blessing not yet understood. 

The world by Divinity planned. 

Was formed at His mighty command; 

And these flowers to-day 

The glad meaning convey. 
That He rules with lenient hand. 

Then let our souls abide in praise. 
And question not God's hidden ways ; 



ISO POEMS BY 

For in life's strange compound 
Some pleasures sweet are found, 
And all are not dark, sunless days. 



LOVE, FALSE AND TRUE. 

A proud millionaire had fallen ! 

Yet none regretted to see 
The utter financial ruin 

Of miserly Joseph Lee. 



His heart was selfish and stony, 
He had not,, in station high, 
Heeded the poor widow's pleading, 
. Nor the famished orphan's cry. 



He feared not a God's sure vengeance. 
And had old and feeble grown 

In hoarding wealth — his life's great aim, 
But ah, his idol was flown ! 



CLARA BUSH. 151 

His brain was racked with mental pain, 

Deep and bitter was his moan 
As slow he walked the sumptuous halls, 

That so late had been his own.. 



"Lost! lost!" in hopeless grief .he sighed, 
' ' My long treasured gains all lost ! 

Oh the care, the strife, the weariness 
The battle for gold has cost ! 



' ' Alas ! that I in want should die, 
I thought not to lay my head 

In a pauper's grave — but it is thus, 
And AlHe must beg for bread." 



He looked in pity on his child. 
Who, with pensive, thoughtful air. 

Stood at the window gazing out 
On the crowded thoroughfare. 



She was thinking of the morrow 

When stranger claimants would come. 

To turn her helpless on the world 
And take her once happy home. 



152 POEMS BY 

Poor Allie ! fallen child of wealth ! 

But yesterday an heiress, — 
Yet fate, in strange decreeing. 

To-day left her penniless. 



Her heart had ever been tender, 
She had kindly words for all, 

And at the sorrows of others 
Would the tears of pity fall. 



She'd known not a mother's kindness. 
That dearest and truest friend , 

Passed from earth with whispered prayer 
That angels her babe attend. 



She sighed that none came to comfort 
Of all the dear ones she knew, 

But dared not think that Willie, 
Her Willie, would prove untrue. 



' Twas only a fortnight ago 

That her heart to him she gave. 

And on her finger now sparkled 
His pledge of undying love. 



CLARA BUSH. 153 

It was then the autumn weather, 

And they chose their wedding day 
To be in the balmy spring-time — 

In the rosy month of May. 



Now swift he was saiHng from her, 

He had only yesterday 
Embarked a foreign-bound steamer, 

To come not again till May. 



With a lover's kiss he left her, 

Promising a due return, 
But oh ! how her soul, grief-stricken. 

For his presence now did yearn. 



She knelt in the deep'ning twilight, 
And prayed that no ill-starred day 

Would take her life's dearest treasure- 
The gallant young Willie Grey. 



The night hours passed, and morning's light 
Showed the form of Joseph Lee 

Silent and cold, for death had been 
And set his crushed spirit free. 



154 POEMS BY 

Unloved, unwept by any — save one, 
They hurried the dead away ; 

And o'er the grave was reared no stone 
To mark where the pauper lay. 



The few who had borne him hither 
Hastened from a scene so drear; 

But Allie lingered, and on the sod 
Shed many "a bitter tear. 



Long she wept, for at least to her 
That father had proved most kind ; 

//"(?;' slightest wish he'd loved to grant, 
Though to others' wants so blind. 



The sexton's work was done, and yet 
He seemed not ready to depart; 

Never before had mourner's, wail 
So melted his hardened heart. 



" Lady!" he said, in softened tones, 
' ' I proffer to be your friend. 

And to shield you from life's tempests 
My kindliest aid will lend. 



CLARA BUSH. 155 

' ' Little Bess wants an elder sister, 

And wife, I know, would be glad 
To protect a homeless orphan, 

And comfort a heart so sad. 



" Our cot is lowly," he added, 
' ' But love is an inmate there. 

And of all our humble blessings 
I offer to thee a share." 



"You are kind," Allie answered meekly, 
"Kinder than others I've known; 

The many that claimed my friendship. 
In a day have strangely flown. 



" With thanks I will share your dwelling 
Till again spring-time shall come;" 

And she thought of the day when Wilhe 
As a bride would take her home. 



She waited his promised missives. 

Waited through winter's drear hours, 

Waited till the rain and sunbeams 

Brought back the buds and flowers : — 



156 POEMS BY 

And 'twas then the tidings reached her 
That the long-loved Willie Grey 

Had wedded in rank and fortune, 
And thrown her true heart away. 



She could not battle life's trouble^ 
Too trusting was she and frail, 

And 'twas not long till the heart's-tide 
Ebbed low, and her cheeks grew pale. 



She drooped with the summer roses, 

And when dead leaves strewed the ground 

Jn the burying-place was added 
To the many another mound. 



She left her false love a message. 
It read : ' ' My pardon to thee, 

And a gift — with which you plighted 
To be true to Allie Lee." 



The years passed on, and Bessie Dale, 
The kind old sexton's daughter — 

A fair youth met whose wooing soon 
The bliss of true-love taup-ht her. 



CLARA BUSH. 157 



He was of noble birth — the son 
Of one Lord Cecil De Ghrame ; 

Yet still he pleaded to confer 
On Bessie a titled name. 



He kissed her ruby-tinted lips, 

When the wished-for " yes" was told, 

And on one dainty finger placed 
A jeweled circlet of gold. 



She smiled — then sighed — and softly said, 
" Let us walk among the mounds;" 

'Twas summer night and Luna's light 
Silvered o'er the sacred grounds. 



She led by many stones that rose 
Over those from earth-cares free. 

Then paused beside a moss-grown grave — 
The grave of poor Allie Lee. 



A marble slab — the sexton's care. 
Told the name, the birth the death ; 

A wounded dove and severed heart 
Were chastely carved beneath. 



158 POEMS BY 

Around the place white roses grew, 
With pale lilies of the vale, 

And evergreens, all planted there 
By the hand of Bessie Dale. 



"Let me tell you a story, please," 
Bessie half tremulous said, 

"A sad, sad story, but so true — 
The fate of a fair young maid. 



"Fortune favored her happy life 
Till she grew to womanhood ; 

Not the angels, I ween, can be 
Scarce more beautiful or good. 



"So pure, so trusting, with a heart 
Mild and gentle as the dove ; 

But ah ! it was a cruel fate 
That awoke it first to love. 



"A suitor came of noble form 
And pleasing, courteous air. 

With just the face and voice to win 
The heart of a lady fair. 



CLARA BUSH. 159 

"She granted the boon for which he pled, 

While he vowed fidelity, 
And gave the bright betrothal ring 

As a sweet security. 



"And then far o'er the deep he sailed, 
To prepare a home, he said ; 

And promised quickly to return, 
His fair affianced to wed. 



"The lady's mother early died, 
Her father was proud and cold, — 

Had love for naught save his only child 
And his treasured stores of gold. 



" He sought not the great world's friendship, 

He cared not its love to share ; 
And, when the richest in the land, 

Would to none a penny spare. 



" But in a day his vast wealth fled ! 

He was old and could not bear 
The mighty loss, but sank and died — ' 

Overpowered by despair. 



i6o POEMS BY 

"We gave to his orphaned daughter 
A place by our own fireside ; 

And she spoke of one soon coming 
To make her a happy bride. 



"Meekly, hopefully, she waited long, 
But the one she trusted most 

Proved false, and wedded one of wealth 
Who dwelt on a foreign coast. 



"Then came a strange look o'er her face, 
Of pity — forgiveness — woe ! 

But no shade of revengeful thought 
Could that guileness being know. 



" We saw her fading day by day, 

Without tke power to save. 
And much wc mourned when we were called 

To make her an early grave. 



' ' In bridal robes of snowy white 
Was the lovely form arrayed, 

With orange blossoms round her brow 
And upon the bosom laid. 



CLARA BUSH. i6i 

" *Twas years ago but seems not long 

Since they placed her here to rest ; 
We know her griefs are all forgot 

In the home of Heaven's blest ; 



' ' But not yet have we forgiven 
That suitor's disloyalty, 

For the gift of a woman's heart 
Is worthy all fealty. ' ' 



" Thanks for the story my darling, 
The gallant young lord replied, 

"It unfolds a timely warning 
Of ills that too oft betide. 



" 'Tis plain the traitor wooed for wealth, 
But — pardon me, I implore — 

My love is poor and it must be 
Just herself XhdX I adore. 



"Although the world beside were false, 
My pledge shall not be broken : " 

And ere the sun thrice more went down 
Their wedding vows were spoken. 



i62 . POEMS BY 

LINES 

Dedicated to Mr. Claude J. Bell and Mrs. Alice Bell, nee Miss O'Daniel. 
Written on their nuptial day, June 19, 1883. 

A cloudless morn, 

A summer morn ; 
Flowers, the fairest of the fair, 
With scents ambrosial fill the air ; 
The tuneful Joirds, a joyous throng — 
Trill o'er and o'er their sweetest song ; 
Divinely shed there seems to fall 
, A benediction over all, 

This lovely day, 

This bridal day. 

A happy pair, 

A noble pair; 
A maiden with seraphic face. 
And sylph-like form and airy grace, 
And one who seems fitted to wear 
The royal crown, and sceptre bear, 
Have joined their hearts — have been made one, 
And life's journey anew begun ; 

Love's shining light 

Their path makes bright. 

Hope leads the way, 
Where flowers gay 



CLARA BUSH. 163 

Are all abloom 'neath sunny skies ; 
They pluck the ones of richest dyes, 
And bind a garland bright, that will 
Be ever fair — be immortelle ; 
A sweet memento of the time 
Spent in that Arcadian clime, 

Where Cupid's glance 

Doth hearts entrance. 

Along life's way, 

From day to day. 
They'll find some needful work to do, 
Plenteous seeds of good to sow, 
Wounds to bind, burdens to lighten, 
Darkened hearts and homes to brighten ; 
It never ceases, never ends — 
This great life-work, until the hands 

Can do no more — 

Life's journey o'er. 

They're'worth the cost. 

They're never lost. 
Acts of kindness, love and duty; 
Precious gems of rarest beauty 
They add to heaven's treasury — 
The soul's wealth for eternity ; 
An angel will good deeds record. 
The Lord will mete a rich reward 



1 64 POEMS BY 

To all who fill 
Their mission well. 

This wedded pair, 

To whom seems fair 
The sky above, the path below, 
Will find it a delusive show ; 
Yet, to brave hearts and strong, the strife 
And barriers that checker life 
Are stepping-stones — hewn out by Fate ; 
Earth's conquerors and heroes great 

Have won by them 

Fame's diadem. 

A crown of gold, 

Of worth untold. 
May by these stepping-stones be won ; 
Though weary be life's race to run. 
Though barriers across the way 
Rise high and higher day by day. 
Who would not bravely scale their height, 
To gain at last this treasure bright. 

Which pays for all ? — 

Life's coronal. 



CLARA BUSH. 165 

" STANZAS. 

Dedicated to my unknown friends, J. R. T. and L. W., on tlie event of 
their ntiarriage. 

There comes to my mind the vision 

Of a happy, wedded pair, 
Just starting anew Hfe's journey 

Neath skies propitious and fair. 

My fancy is wont to paint them, — 

The one, in manhood's glory, 
The one, in form as beauteous 

As sylph in olden story. 

Not long since to Hymen's altar 

Cupid victorious led ; 
And there with hands fondly clasping 

The marriage vows were said. 

Their faces reflect the feelings 

Of rapture that fill each heart. 
And still are their bright eyes flashing 

The magic of Cupid's art. 

Their path to joy's fount seems leading. 

Around are flowers springing ; 
While resting on Love's pedestal 

The siren, Hope, is singing. 



1 66 POEMS BY 

Enrapt they list ! — the goft notes tell, 
In happy, thrilling measures, 

Of days and months that number years 
Of sweetest, purest pleasures. 

Such be their lives ; and may they glide 
Onward like some calm river, 

Unruffled by the touch of strife — 
Tranquil and peaceful ever ! 



MUSINGS. 



After the pleasant and unexpected visit from a gay bridal party on Thurs- 
day, April 29th, 1880— Mr. A, A. Fleming and Miss Belle Wright 
being the wedded pair. 

Have I slept, and in sweet dreaming, 

A vision of beauty appeared? 
Were those sylph-like forms but fancied? 

And those silvery laughs unheard ? 
Were those nectared kisses that fell 

On my cheek, like ripples of love — 
But dropped from some mystic chalice. 

By phantoms in the air above ? 

No ; those visitants were real, 

For lo ! here are tributes they gave, 

Bridal cake, from the bride's own hand, 
As white as the foam-crested wave ; 



CLARA BUSH. 167 

And from the bridal attendants, 

Behold ! here are flowerets bright, 
How happily they were- chosen ! 

No treasures give dearer delight. 

Oh ! how I wish for a language, 

Their wondrous beauties to tell ; 
Truly they seem to have blossomed 

In some fairy- enchanted dell. 
Never may Lethe's dark shadows 

Fall over the scenes of to-day. 
Never may grow dim the lustre 

Of memory's glad, cheering ray. 

The sight of those smiling faces. 

And the sound of those voices gay, 
Have lent me thrillings of pleasure, 

And charmed sadder feelings away. 
For I love to know that all hearts 

Are not darkened with grief like mine ; 
And am pleased to see joy's sunlight 

Over the lives of others shine. 

And blessings, divinest blessings, 

I wish on the fair, happy bride ; 
May the sweetest joys surround her, 

And never may sorrows betide ; 



1 68 POEMS BY 

And may he to whom she has given 
The riches of her life in store, 

Prove a most loyal guardian — 
Faithful to the trust evermore. 



MRS. FOWLER, nee MISS McCRORY. 

To-day I saw her as a bride, 
So young, and meekly fair ; 

My fancied dreams of angel forms 
Scarce more beauteous are. 



Over her peaceful, sunny brow. 
There lay no shade of care ; 

Her happy heart, that spoke in smiles, 
Told of sweet pleasures there. 



Shining tresses — tinted golden, 
Like to the sunlit wave — 

Her temples swept, and to her face 
An added beauty gave. 



CLARA BUSH. 169 

Sparkling jewels threw a lustre 

O'er falls of snowy lace, 
As subtle in mazy texture 

As fairy hands might trace. 



Silken vesture, silvery hued, 
Rustled in sweeping train ; 

And all her rich trousseau was worn 
With quiet, modest mien. 



Upon one dainty finger gleamed 

A simple golden band ; 
Her love's pledge of trust, when she 

Gave him her heart and hand. 



Skilled in love's subtle archery, 
And armed with Cupid's dart, 

A precious treasure he had won — 
A maideii s faithful heart ! 



How joyous must have been the hour. 
In which he gained his prize, — 

How sweet to bind it to his life, 
With hymeneal ties ! 



I70 POEMS BY 

O may their burning lamp of love 
Never withhold its ray ; 

But ceaseless shed its cheering light, 
As brightly as to-day. 



May ever tranquil be the sea 
On which they late set sail ; 

And may their bark be unassailed 
By rude, contending gale. 



With their loyal banner waving, 
And Love their course to steer, 

Of breakers 'mid the ocean's waves 
They need not have a fear. 



My kindest wish is that they may. 
At last their voyage o'er — 

Safely anchor beyond the shoals, 
On a celestial shore. 



CLARA BUSH. 171 

LINES 

Inscribed to my brother on the event of his marriage, February 8th, 1882: 

A loving heart to thine is bound, 

With earth's strongest, holiest bands ; 

Launched upon an untried ocean 

Fearless you steer for foreign strands. 

My dear, my proud and noble brother! 

If I might rule thy destiny, 
Thine should be a happy voyage, 

Over an ever tranquil sea. 

Clouds should never gather o'er thee, 

Thy sky should be forever fair. 
Life should mete thee sweetest pleasures. 

With naught of grief — with naught of care.. 

But alas ! how vain my wishing. 

No earthly lot so blest can be, — 
Always sunny, joyous, gladsome, 

From strife and sorrow ever free. 

Out upon life's troublous waters. 

Out amid dread tempests drear; 
Though thy barque be lashed by surges, 

O, let thy brave heart feel no fear! 



1/2 POEMS BY 

Though the wild waves rage around thee, 
And deeper darkness wraps the sea ; 

Though rocks may thy way imperil, 
Let not thy hope and courage flee. 



Onward pr-ess ! with will defiant 
To the barriers of the main ; 

Battle with heroic valor, 

Until life's final goal you gain. 



Those that shrink from ev'ry danger 
Can no famous victory gain ; 

Those that fail to fight life's battle 
No precious prize can e'er attain. 



It is to the truly valiant, 

Fadeless immortelles are given, 
When at last they safely anchor 

In fair Eden's peaceful haven. 



CLARA BUSH. 173 

LINES 

liOvingly inscrilbed to my sister after her marriage, September 7th, 1882. 

Alone this eve in the gloaming, there falls a low voice on my ear, 
A voice that is touched with sadness, yet sweeter than music to 

hear; 
In echo 'tis softy wafted from the by-gone aback to me — 
'Tis the voice of memory speaking, gently speaking, sister, of 

thee. 

It is sad yet sweet to listen, as it tells of happier days, 

When thy presence made home brighter than the summer sun's 

brightest rays. 
The sound of thy voice and footstep has vanished from parlor 

and hall, 
And now seems to rest a shadow where a halo once used to- fall ; 
There swells no tone from the organ in accord with silvery strain, 
Memory only in echo faintly bears me the low refrain 
Of sweet songs that ever seemed sweeter, dear sister, when sung 

by thee, 
For the voice of none could soothe me like thine own with its 

melody. 

But now the home of another you have gone to brighten and 

bless. 
And another's heart to gladden, leaving mine own in loneliness. 

I think me now, as the shadows of dim twilight around are 
shed. 



174 



POEMS BY 



How so oft at this quiet hour you have sat by my little bed, 
Resting your arm near my pillow and clasping my fingers in 

thine, 
As we talked, perchance, of the earthly or of heaven and things 

divine ; 
Or sometimes sang to me softly those sv/eet little songs of my 

choice. 
Whose words gave me greatest comfort and best suited thy 

tender voice; 
While close and closer together love's tendrils did our hearts 

entwine, 
And m.y bosom's ev'ry sorrow found a responsive cord in thine. 

But ah, thy chair is vacant now, and the room, alas ! is strangely- 
still, 

And in my heart there is a void the lapse of years can never 
fill. 

It seems so hard to be parted — so sad thus our lives to sever. 
So long had we dwelt together in love and forbearance ever. 

Yet time may teach me submission, but never, never to forget, 
And I feel that in my bosom e'er will linger a sad regret. 

I remember well the morning in which the good-bye kiss you 

gave — 
A tender kiss, warm and loving, but it made in my heart a 

grave 



CLARA BUSH. 175 

Where pleasures that made hfe brighter now He hidden within 

its gloom ; 
Yet memory has planted there fairest flowers of fadeless bloom, 
And evergreens, to mark the spot that to me is so doubly dear, 
And oft upon the little mound I may drop an unbidden tear. 

When I heard thy footstep, sister, o'er the threshold of home 

depart, 
It seemed I could feel the pressure of an ice-cold hand on my 

heart ; 
Yet my prayer for thee was fervent, and I asked that heaven 

would shed 
Its blessings along the pathway that in future thy feet should 

tread. 

I would that flowers of pleasure, the brightest that on earth e'er 

bloom — 
May border the road you travel ; and no clouds in the distance 

loom. 

Serene as the summer's azure may the sky of thy day appear, 
And life's chalice be unmingled with bitterness, and sorrow's 

tear 
Never once make dim the lustre of thine eye's own heavenly 

light, 
But all be joy and gladness — sunny and unshadowed by night. 

Yes, fain would I have thee happy, though deeper and denser 
each day 



176 POEMS BY 

Should the darkness round me gather, till not one faint, glad- 
dening ray 

Could break through the clouds upon me, but all be encompass- 
ed in gloom 

Even more sombre and cheerless than ever encircled the tomb. 

Though by Fate's rude hand divided, let our hearts be united 

still ; 
I ne'er can give to another the place in my heart that you fill, 
And though to another you've given thine own first love, I ask 

of thee 
To keep for ever and ever a warm place m its depths for me. 

Others will now learn to knov/ thee and call thee by another 

name, 
Yet to m.e, my sweet, sweet sister, you will ever remain the 

same; 
And oft as shall be thy coming to the old home back to my 

side, 
I wish to think of thee only as before you became a bride; 
And trust that sometime together we may meet in that "better 

home," 
Where the feet of none will ever beyond its pearly threshold 

roam. 



CLARA BUSH. 177 

ACROSTIC. 

REV. T. E. SCOTT. 

Repeat, O loud repeat God's holy Word ! 
Ear has never so grand a story heard; 
Voyagers afloat on life's troubled main 
The Savior need, to pilot and sustain ; 
Even though billows surge 'mid angry blast, 
Securely will they rest in port at last. 
Christ will extend a loving hand, to guide 
Over the raging sea to Canaan's side 
The weary mariners, v/ho seek to gain 
That peaceful shore beyond life's stormy main. 



ACROSTIC. 



CAPT. A. J. F. DAY. 

Creature of God's noblest aim is man ! 
A work which Deity alone might plan ; 
Power of intellect nor thought profound 
The depth of life's deep meaning cannot sound ; 
A boundless ocean rolls in fancy's realm, — 
Joined in one throng we sail, while at the helm 
Fate watchful stands. Ah, whither are we bound ? 
Dread Eternity ! where thy shores be found ? 
Alas! 'tis mystic all, — not till we land 
Yearnings of restless soul we'll understand. 



178 POEMS BY 

ACROSTIC. 

MR. T. M. KARNES. 

Many remembered names of friends most kind 
Resplendent in a fadeless wreath I bind; 
Twined with the cords of love, this garland fair, 
Monarch or princess might with honor wear ; 
Kept in the secret casket of my heart, 
A lustre to my soul it doth impart. 
Rarest and dearest treasure that I own ! 
No other wealth its pleasures could atone, — 
Earth's richest gems but little joy would lend 
Should Fate withhold the precious gift of Friend. 



ACROSTIC. 

MR. CLAUDE J. BELL. 

Man's heart enfolds a tablet where to trace 
Rare gems of thought which Time cannot efface ; 
Close guarded with an ever-watchful care, 
Life's latest hours will find its pages fair; 
A special note of life's eventful way 
Upon some leaf is chronicled each day; 
Departed scenes ar^ brightly here portrayed, 
Earth's cherished things in fadeless light arrayed. 



CLARA BUSH. 17 g 

Joy, Hope, and Love successively appear, 
But Finendshif s peerless page is held most dear ; 
Engraved in characters of gold each name 
Life's strange vicissitudes will prove the same — 
Loyal in low estate, loyal in fame ! 



ACROSTIC. 

TO MISS DAISY PRATT, AN UNKNOWN FRIEND. 

My vision of thee is heavenly fair, 
I picture a form divinely bright, 
Shining sunlit waves of soft, silken hair, 
Sweep the brow where beams intellectual light. 

Dreaming, thou art near me, and round my heart 
Affection's tendrils are closely entwined; 
In fadeless garlands of fairy-like art 
Sweet flowers of love are deftly combined. 
Ye cannot know what high, holy feeling. 
Pervades my soul while thinking of thee ; 
Round me thy spirit seems softly stealing. 
And in silence holds communion with me. 
• 'Tis my heart's fond wish to meet thee in real — 
To claim thee as friend beyond the ideal. 



i8o POEMS BY 



ACROSTIC. 



TO MISS ADDIE FOOTE, 
A lady known to me only through an epistolary correspondence. 
Much I love thee, Addie, my unknown friend; 
I read thy heart from missives that you send; 
Sweet is the budding rose and fair to see — 
Sweeter and fairer is my dream of thee. 
As pure, almost, as the angels above. 
Dear friend, I deem thee, in the depth of my love ; 
Divinely fair is the picture I see ' 

In fancy's tender portrayal of thee; 
Ethereal beauty lights up the face — 
Fair as the Madonna's, and not a trace 
Of guile is seen on the brow lily-fair, 
Over which fall tresses of silken soft hair. 
These outward charms a casket form, where lies 
Enshrined a precious gem — to deck the skies. 



ACROSTIC. 

MYRTLE ALSTON. ^ 

Modest thou art and lovely ; 
Youthful innocence and grace 
Robe, in sweetest harmony. 
Thy beauteous form and face ; 
Like a cherub sent from Heaven, 
Even, seems thy sweet life given. 



CLARA BUSH. i8i 

Angels above ! I pray ye, 
Let thy blessings round her fall ; 
Securely guide her footsteps 
Through paths that perils enthrall ; 
Onward lead to the journey's end — 
Never forsake my little friend. 



ACROSTIC. 

FLORENCE ALSTON. 

Far away from scenes of sadness, 
Lies a land celestial bright, 
Over which will clouds of sorrow 
Rise never, to dim its light. 
Eternal are all its glories — 
Never-ending bliss is there ; 
Carols of heavenly anthems, 
Echo in melody rare. 

Around the throne of Jehovah, 
Lo! the happy angels stand, — 
Sounding aloud their golden harps, 
Till music fills all the land: 
O, how sweetly they sing and play ' 
Never to cease through endless day. 



1 82 POEMS BY 

ACROSTIC. 

MARA WASHTELLA ROSSON. 

Model of purity thou art ; 

All that's good of earth, it seems, 
Rests within thy guileless heart, 

And lights thine eye with holy gleams. 



With thy face, angelic fair — 

Alv/ays near to cheer and bless. 
Scarce can come a weary care, 

Hope and gladness to repress. 
Taught by thee is trustful "love ; 

Engraven on thy lily brow, 
Lo ! the mildness of the dove. 

Linked with faith shed from above, - 
All fidelity avow. 



Radiant thy morn of life ; 

O, may thine every day 
Sweetly pass, and no sad strife 

Steal over thy gladsome way ; 
Our hearts with kind wishes rife 

Ne'er would have thee go astray. 



CLARA BUSH. 183 

ACROSTIC. 

MINNIE CLARA ROSSON. 

'Mid earth's fairest scenes of gladness 

I would have thine hours to blend, 
Neath o'erhanging shades of sadness 

Never may thy life-course tend. 
Into paths of joy and brightness 

Ever may thy footsteps wend. 

Clime of cloudless sky is fitting 

Little Hves as pure as thine, — 
A land of fadeless bloom, emitting 
Rarest sweets to breezes flitting, 

And where love-lights always shine. 

Round the heart, like tendrils twining, 

O, how sweetly love-ties bind ! 
Sever not the soul's enshrining, 

Since in loving we may find 
Oft a joy beyond defining — 

Nature's gift to mortal kind. 



ACROSTIC. 

MISS CO LIE BOYETT. 



May there come no sad to-morrow 
In thy life so bright and gay ; 
Shadows of earth's gloom and sorrow 
Seem too dark to cloud thy way. 



1 84 PO^MS BY 

Calm as gentle zephyrs blowing 
O'er the grasses of the lea, 
Lovely as the floret growing 
In the wood by waters flowing, 
Even may thy young life be. 

Bring thou no tears or weary sigh, 
O Fate ! to m.ar youth's gladness ; 
Year by year as swift they fly 
Each let them leave no sadness ; 
The memory of early joys 
Throws sweetness over life's alloys. 



ACROSTIC. 

MISS BIRDIE BOYETT. 

Methinks there are none lovelier 
In the realms of earthly bound ; 
So let us crown her Beauty's queen, 
Since none fairer may be found. 

Bind ye the brightest flowerets 
In a garland for her hair, 
Radiant gems from the garden 
Deck fitly a brow so fair ; 
In royal courts was never seen 
Enthroned a fairer, sweeter queen. 



CLARA BUSH. 185 

Bow, then, to the shrine of Beauty, 

O, hither thy trophies bear ! 

Yet may her pure heart never be 

Enwrapt in vanity's snare; 

Though praise ma}'- flow in fluent tide, 

The soul should not exult in pride. 



ACROSTIC. 

MISS CLARA BELL BALDRIDGE. 

Music, poetry and flowers ; 

In their praise let nations sing, 
Since to all weary ones of earth 

Some sense of joy they can bring. 

Cold hearts that seem lost to feeling. 

List to music's glad refrain ; 
And a faint thrill of rapture feel 
Round the dead heart softly steal. 
Awaking it to life again. 

Bards with songs sweet as the siren's, 
Enchant us, and with gentle hand 

Lead us through the fields of beauty 
Lying in Ideal land. 



1 86 POEMS BY 

Brightest flowers come to cheer us, 

And contribute to our bHss ; 
Loving hands of the Creator 

Designed them for our happiness 
Round the lowly cot they blossom, 

In the palace they appear; 
Delicious fragrance they impart, 
Giving joy to many a heart ; 

Ever let us hold them dear. 



ACROSTIC. 

MISS ELNORA POWELL. 

Music's echo, softly sweet, 

Is not sweeter than thy voice ; 

Something in its dulcet tone 
Seems to bid our hearts rejoice. 

Emblem of purity thy face, 
Lit up with truth and love, — ^ 

None more beautifully fair 
Only in realms above ! 

Radiant thy brow, from blemish free, 

A holy mission thine must be. 



CLARA BUSH. 187 

Praises of thy noble deeds 

Over earth's vast domain 
Will resound — the echo heard 

Even where seraphs reign ! — 
Loving angels rejoice to see ' 
Little hearts fraught with purity. 



ACROSTIC. 

MISS MATTIE THOMAS. 

Morning, fair sweet morning of life ! 

It leaves on memory's page 
Something time can never erase, 

Something unsullied by age. 

Many joys that were so transient, 

Are stored in memory still ; 
The thought of well-spent, gladsome hours, 

The heart with strange pleasures fill. 
It is a noble thing to spend 
Each moment for some better end. 

The soul, illumed with love and Truth, 
Has pure joys that live untold ; 

O'er earth it sheds a beaming light, 
More bright than gems or gold ; 

And its influence that may fall. 

Sweetest pleasures will lend to all. 



POEMS BY 
ACROSTIC. 

MISS ANNA THOMAS. 

May some guardian angel, 

In love that ceases never, 
Silently, about thy way 

Scatter blessings ever. 

And may thy gentle, loving heart, 
Never in grief nor anguish beat ; 

Never may clouds of sorrow rise 
Around thy life so bright and sweet'. 

Though our earth may oft seem gloomy, 
Heaven will shed a halo bright 

O'er thy life, and gently guide thee, 
Making heaviest burdens light; 

And the sweet, glad song of an angel band 

Sometime will greet thee in a fairer land. 



ACROSTIC. 

MISS MARY GID PORTER. 

My little friend is truly noble, 
Innocence and love and truth 

Sit enthroned upon her forehead, 
Sweetest virtues of her youth. 



CLARA BUSH. 189 

May her heart be ever stainless 

And as free from guile as now, 
Roses, intertwined with laurel. 

Yet may be wreathed around her brow ; 
Garlands by deeds of kindness won. 
Immortalized when life is done — 

Dazzle brighter far than now. 

Proclaim her virtues all ye people ! 

O, ye nations ! sing her praise ; 
Rarely has been found in youth 

Tnith supreme in all her ways ; 
Earth is gladdened by her presence — 

Rendered more like Paradise. 



ACROSTIC 



To Dr. R. W. Powell, of Kenton, •Tenn.; wi-itten on receiving from him a 

pair of vases. 

Dainty gifts I deem my vases,' 

Royal gems I'd prize not more ; 
Relics of the past they will be, 

Waking memories of yore. 



190 POEMS BY 

Picture my surprise and gladness 
On last merry Christmas night, 

When I saw my rose-tint vases, 
Encircled with gold-bands bright; 

Long will I keep them and tenderly place 

Loveliest of flowers in each dear vase. 

.Kind deeds of thine I'll ne'er forget, 

Enshrined in memory deep 
No theft of time can steal away 

The treasures that I keep : 
Of other days mementoes softly tell — 
Not music e'er with sweeter cadence fell. 

'Tis sadly sweet to ponder o'er 

Each grief and pleasure that has flown ; 

No heart but has some sorrow felt, 
No life but has some joy known. 



ACROSTIC. 

TO AN INFANT. 



Many have maiden's beauty praised 
/will tell of beauty supreme, — 
Scarcely can aught of fancy be 
So fair as the babe of my theme. 



CLARA BUSH. 191 

Most beautiful her hair, her eyes 
Are matchless in hue and ray ; 
Upon each pearly, velvet cheek, 
Dimples often merrily play. 

Pretty as a bud, unfolding 
Each crimson petal, are her lips ; 
Rare her hand's exquisite moulding, 
Kisses fall from those beholding 
Its dainty palm and finger tips ; 
Next, indeed, to angel creature's, 
Seems the beauty of her features. 

Perhaps you'd like to know the name 
Of this babe surpassingly fair. 
Would you? Yes, I'm very sure 
Everyone would like to hear. 
Listen, then, to my avowal: — 
Little Miss Maud Perkins Powell. 



ACROSTIC 

MRS. AUGUSTA J. EVANS WILSON. 

Mortals have chosen to enroll thy name 
Radiant to live on the scrolls of fame ! 
Since first the banner of lore ye unfurled. 



igz POEMS BY 

And proudly flourished it over the world — 

Unto thy shrine nations hither have brought 

Glowing tributes of praise for each noble thought. 

Unfading the laurels genious has twined 

Superbly around thy forehead to bind ; 

Time cannot shadow thy lofty renown, 

Amaranthine will be thy well-won crown, 

Jewels that brightly on queenly brows shine 

Enshrine not the worth of a crown like thine ; 

Votaries of fame have never displayed 

A standard of honor more grandly arrayed ; 

Never were seen richer gems of the mind — 

Sublimity, truth, and beauty we find, 

With harmony sweet, combined with a grace 

Intellectual power alone can trace. 

Lost in the maze of thy glorious sphere, 

Scenes ideally beauteous appear; 

On thy stately throne in wisdom's attire, 

None behold thee but only to admire. 



A DOUBLE ACROSTIC. 

MR. ROBERT BOWEN AND' MRS. CLARA BOWEN. 

Dedicated to Clarabel Baldridge. 
Modesty — that precious, beauteous geM, 
Rests on thy brow, and like a lovely staR, 



CLARA BUSH. 193 

Robed in ethereal splendor, serenely shedS 
Over thy soul its lustre. SeraphiC, 
Bright, as dawning gleams of morn celestiaL — 
Effulgent from out thine eye's blue vistA 
Reflects the light of love; may sin ne'er maR 
Thy heart of purity. O'er life's rough seA, 
Borne onward by rude winds that oft disturB — 
Oft tempest-toss — thy ship will sail. But, lO ! 
When in the quiet harbor you shall roW, 
Expectant seraphim will greet thee homE, 
Neath fair skies to dwell iij fields ElysiaN. 



SONNET. 

TO MY MOTHER ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

Low is now sinking the November sun, 
It is the waning season of the year, 
And of thy toilsome life, my mother dear; 
A weary course it has been thine to run 
Until thy years have numbered sixty-one; 
O that I could wipe for aye the tear 
Of sorrow from thine eye, and sweetly cheer 
Thine oft too mournful heart, for there are none 
By me so well beloved as thou. I thank 
The Giver of all good that He has spared 



194 POEMS BY 

Thy life to me thus long ; for oh, how lone 

Had been my days without thee ! Tho' I've drank 

The draught of bitterness earth has appeared. 
Less drear since over me thy love has shone.' 



SONNET. 

TO MY SISTER ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

This is thy natal day, sweet sister mine ; 

Ah, life's fleeting hours, how quickly they glide 

Forever past — borne on by Time's swift tide! 
But thine has been well spent ; if I might twine 
A garland of thy deeds 'twould brighter shine 

Than jeweled coronal of regal pride ; 

Kind acts to others shown, with self denied, 
Full well disclose a spirit formed divine. 
I oft have thought how cheerless home would be — 

How lone my heart — without thee, sister dear; 
' Tis sweet to know that I am loved by thee, 

And sweet to hear thy voice and have thee near ; 
O, m^ay we meet in blest eternity ! 

And love as we have loved each other here. 



CLARA BUSH. 195 



SONNET. 

TO MY BROTHER ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Thy years sweep on ! — spring's rosy morn has past 
Into life's summer noon. The flowers sweet, 
Which decked the pathway of thine infant feet, 

Were all, alas ! too fragile long to last, 

And withered lie, while clouds have overcast 
Thy sky's cerulean hue. Hours bnce replete 
With pleasures unalloyed Time's pinions fleet 

Have borne forever hence. The chilling blast 

Of autumn days will soon thy forehead kiss. 
And whisper sadly of the winter-time 

Soon coming, when will fall the snows of age. 
O may thy sun go down in perfect bliss, 

Again to rise in that celestial clime. 

Where shadows never fall nor tempests rage. 



SONNET. 

TO LIDA S. 



Among my best — loved friends I number thee; 
And now some happy wish I fain would make 
For thee, dear Lida, just for sweet love's sake ; 

Come, gentle Muses ! say, what shall it be ? 



196 POEMS BY 

I will not wish thy lot from sorrows free, 
It would be only vain, for all who wake 
To mortal life of sorrow must partake, 

For this has ever been Fate's sad decree, — 

But I will wish that mid the thorns that grow 
Along thy way some flowers, too, may spring, 

And o'er the dark, oppressive clouds of woe 
May pleasure oft a golden halo fling, 

Until at last thy steps shall pause where flow 
The living fountains, and bright angels sing. 



SONNET. 

TO AN INFANT. 

Sweet Stella! bonny babe of fairy-like mould, 
Too lovely you seem for a world of care, 
Too happy its sorrows ever to share, 

A beauteous bud more fit to unfold 

In the summer land of which we are told, 
Where bloom amaranthine flowers fair 
Breathing out ambrosial sweets to the air, 

And where never blow the winter winds cold. 
Like a pure bright star beaming o'er life's way, 
Illuming our hearts with its joyous ray, 



CLARA BUSH. 197 

Is thy presence here ; and thine infant tongue, 
In artless prattle, is like music flung 
From a harp sweet-toned, — something Hke to thee 
Methinks the inmates of Heaven must be. 



SONNET. 

TO LEONORA J. 
[Who wished a verse from my pen.] 

Leonora! "airy, fairy," winsome child, 
To the dainty daisy I liken thee — 
Floweret typical of purity. 
We catch from thy brown eyes, loving and mild, 
A glimpse of thy soul by sin undefiled ; 
And thy dulcet voice, in innocent glee. 
Thrills oujr hearts with its artless melody, 
As a sweet bird trilling its wood.-notes wild. 
May thy way be illumed with joy's bright rays. 
Thy sorrows be few and len'gthened thy days ; 
May blessings rest on thee and heayen send 
Guardian angels thy steps to attend ; 
And may life's eventide bring thee joy, 
That can never be marred by earth's alloy. 



198 POEMS BY 

SONNET. 

TO DAISY E. P., AN UNKNOWN FRIEND. 

I ne'er have seen thy face, and yet I love 
Thy very name. They tell me thou art fair, 
And good as beautiful — that all who share 

Thy friendship here are blest. Mild as the dove 

Art thou and innocent. Down from above 
Floats the low echo of an angel's prayer — 
A holy supplication — that would spare 

Thy guileless heart all ill and only give 

Heaven's highest blessings. Meek queen of hearts ! 
Let me draw near thy throne and humbly place 

The tribute of my love upon thy shrine ; 

The thought of thee a sweeter calm imparts 

Unto my mind, and brighter gleams of grace 
Fall round my soul with feelings most divine. 



SONNET. 

ON MY LITTLE FRIEND LENA TAYLOR. 

Out of the depths of her tender brown eyes 
The sweet light of ]f)urity softly glows, 
While the fount of love in her heart o'erflows, 

And the sound of its rippling melodies 

Is heard in the musical symphonies 



CLARA BUSH. 199 

Of her gentle words. Not the blushing rose, 

Which to the summer breeze its fragrance throws, 
Has a fairer tint than that which dyes 
Her lips and cheeks. O, how sweetly enshrined 

Is the spotless soul of this infant mild ! 
With the beautiful, true, and good combined, 

She seems like a seraph all undefiled, 
And I wonder not that our Lord defined 

The kingdom of God by a little child. 



SONNET. 
Inscribed to C. J. B., on the twenty-fourth anniversary of iiis birth. 

Years, departed years ! in life's annals vast 

Time has recorded thine just twenty-four; 

Just twenty-four ; we count the dead years o'er 
And know full well they are forever past. 
Yet the sweet memory of them will last. 

And though they can return again no more 

We keep the precious fruitage that they bore, 
While o'er our lives a fadeless light is cast, 
Shed from the taper of thine own true love. 

Hail to thy natal day ! Gladly will we, 
In honor due, the laurel chaplet weave. 

To crown thee worthy prince of loyalty ; 
And beg thou wilt from us to-day receive 

This guerdon — our best gift of charity. 



200 POEMS BY 



SONNET 



To Miss Annie B., of Buena Vista, Ark., an unknown friend and corres- 
pondent. 

I feel that thou hast given me a place 

In thy warm heart of spotless purity. 

O, sweet are nly thoughts of thee ! — I love thee ! 
Only in fancy have I seen thy face, 
Yet heavenly fair thy picture I trace, 

For Love is blind, and — though some faults there be, 

Can only the good and beautiful see, 
And love inspires me to portray thy grace. 
One wish to thee I make, sweet friend unknown, 

One little wish ; it is that when I'm dead, 
And can no longer tell thee of my love — 

You'll wreathe the tender flowers in friendship blown, 
To crown my memory, — my spirit fled 

Will wait thy coming to the courts above. 



SONNET. 

To my little friend Myrtle A., on her birthday. 

On rapid wings twelve years have flown away, 
Twelve happy years, that held no grief or care ; 
They've left no shadow on thy brow so fair, 

No sorrow in thy heart so blithe and gay ; 

Thy life has been like one bright summer day. 
With cloudless sky, and flov/ers, sweet and rare, 



CLARA BUSH. 201 

Around thy pathway springing everywhere. 
O, that thy steps might never, never stray 
In rugged paths, o'erhung with clouds of gloom! 

Yet if sorrows should come with coming years, 
Think of that land where grief ne'er enters in, 

And where unfading flowers brightly bloom ; 
March bravely on, though blinded oft with tears, — 

A jeweled crown will be the prize you'll win. 



SONNET. 
On seeing the portrait of a friend. 

I think me of Apollo while I 'view 

This pictured form in manhood's fairest prime ; 

The noble brow is yet untraced by Time, 
The fervent eyes are of a darkened hue 
And well bespeak a heart most kind and true ; 
• His mien foretells the mount of lore he'll climb, 

Till on its summit high shall wave sublime 
The ensign of his fame ! The garland due, 
Which heroes all for deeds of glory win — 

His forehead will adorn. The sweetest strains 
That minstrels give but faintly can portray 

The beauties of the soul enshrined within 
The bosom of my friend, — where meekly reigns 

Those virtues that will hold unending sway. 



202 POEMS BY 

SONNET. 

To W. A. M., on his twenty-fourth birthday. 

Twice twelve rotations Time's swift wheels have made 
In circuits annual. Thy youthful days 
Have changed to manhood's years, and in the ways 

Of life's turmoil thy course is henceforth laid; 

Perchance thou oft hast seen sweet pleasures fade, 
And sighed, to wrap in disappointment's fold 
Long cherished hopes ; and felt the heart grow cold 

For want of love's reciprocating rays. 

Life is not what deluded childhood thought — 
All joy and brightness, but grief and gloom 

Are interlinked, and man is early taught 
It is a toilsome jour'ney to the tomb, 

And Happiness — the fount so vainly sought, 
Flows only where flowers of Eden bloom. 



SONNET. 

To my sister-in-law, Mrs. Bush, nee Miss Bettie Kieser. 

O let me share thy love ! — freely I give 

To thee of mine a part. How drear and cold 
Would seem our world if there were none to fold 

Us in love's warm embrace. Come from above 



CLARA BUSH. 20: 

And most divine is the sweet feeling — love. 
More precious far than richest hoards of gold, 
A treasure rare whose worth is all untold, 

A blessing, heaven-sent, on all that live. 

O let me share thy love! — it is so sweet 
To feel that I am loved by those held dear. 
And would a place in thy affections find; 

Just tender me 07te link, to help complete 

The golden chain that binds together here 

Fond heart to heart, with bonds that sweetly bind. 



SONNET. 



TO C. J. B. 

Methinks I ne'er have found a truer friend; 
Along life's drear and rocky thorn-grown way 
You kindly scattered flowers sweet and gay ; 

And o'er the shadows that my course attend, 

Such golden gleams of joyous sunlight send 
I'm oft beguiled by the entrancing ray. 
Till, seemingly, the gloom is swept away 

As by the flourish of a fairy's wand. 

My friends are all held dear ; each name. 
That I in love have treasured in my heart, 



204 POEMS BY 

Is prized as something precious and divine ; 

O, may they ever be as now the same ! 
I'd much regret with any name to part, 

But none lament more than the loss of thine. 



SONNET. 



Suggested by a visit from Mrs. S. P. James, whom I had not seen for 

sixteen years. 

How passing sweet it was to meet once more 
My dear-loved friend and teacher ! Memory 
Brings back a thousand pleasant thoughts to me. 

In fancy now, as oft in days of yore, 

Again I con some little lesson o'er ; 
My little paymates, too, again I see — 
Their voices hear and rippling laughs of glee 

Out on the play-ground, near by the school-room door. 

Yet one face, to me the dearest of all, 

On memory's background brightest appears ; 

And a voice like melody seems to fall 

On my ear, as of yore, after all these years ; 

While love binds our hearts — my teacher's and mine. 
With tendrils that time can never untwine. 



CLARA BUSH. 205 

DEDICATION. 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF CAPT. A. J. F. DAY. 

Fallen — alas ! beneath death's mighty hand 
A friend has fallen — a most loyal friend! 
That stately form, which late bespoke command, 
Lies lowly now. 'Tis only to commend 
The virtues of his life we fain would speak, 
And not to name his faults. If he was weak 
At times and went astray — oh, let the pall 
Hide every wrong ; and let us but recall 
The goodly part of his existence here. 
'Tis said "for all that die there is a tear," 
And we have sadly wept, to bid adieu 
To one who was to us a friend so true. 
O ruthless death ! relentless victor thou ! 
The meek or proud, the weak or brave must bow 
Alike to thee, in life's great battle-field. 
And at thy dread behest the conquest yield. 
Deeply we feel our loss ; — the noble heart. 
That once so warmly beat, and lent a part 
Of life's best pleasures to our own, is cold 
And silent now — doomed to the charnel mould. 
The kindly voice, that gave such willing cheer. 
Is hushed for aye; and we no more shall hear 
The pleasant laugh, which hopefully did thrill 
Our souls whene'er depressed. Only a knell. 
As faintly sounding from some distant dome — 



2o6 POEMS BY 

Seems now in solemn, doleful tones to come, 

Knolling departed greatness. Like some grand 

And princely tower, swept from off the land, 

He passed away. Death, the conquering foe — 

In pride of power brought the structure low. 

The mind's vast treasury was overthrown, 

Where rarest gems of thought in beauty shone ; 

The precious jewels of the heart were all 

Hidden amid the ruins of the fall. 

O, what a wreck ! the throne of reason's reign 

Cast rudely down, never on earth again 

In glorious, imperial pomp to rise ! 

All — all despoiled ; and wrapt in dust now lies 

What did but late so royally enshrine 

Those riches which great wisdom doth combine. 

We grieve to think an intellect so bright. 

No more will shed o'er earth meridian light. 

There is a darkened spot — a void lone — 

Made in our lives since he from hence has gone. 

We found him ever generous and kind, 

Ready to tender aid, or gently bind 

The bleeding heart, that woes so often rend ; 

Truly, he was in deed and trust a Friend. 

Then how could we but mourn? how could we say 

The long — the last farewell, and turn away 

With eyes undimmed and bosoms sorrow free? 

Ah, no ! we would not have it thus to be ; 

Like senseless adamant would seem the heart 



CLARA BUSH. . 207 

That could, without regret, forever part 

With one who sought to add sweet drops of joy 

Unto Hfe's bitter cup of sad alloy. 

We deem it well, in tender grief, to shed 

A few sacred tears for our lamented dead. 

His was a worthy mission here, for he 

Had labored much for friends and country. 

Then, in devotion due, let us now hold 

His memory endeared; and trace in gold - 

Loyalty on the standard of his fame, 

And let it wave in honor to his name. 

And we do humbly ask of God above, 

In His unbounded mercy and deep love — 

Since death was pleased his spirit to set free. 

To let it reign in blest eternity. 



"GONE BEFORE." 

REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF MR. A. o' DANIEL. 

Our hearts are draped in mourning. We have lost 
A dear and valued friend. A new-made grave 
Shows the lowly spot where he rests in peace. 
Though cold and dark the place of his repose 
He heeds it not, but sweetly slumbers on, 
Like one that has grown weary from long toil. 



2o8 POEMS BY 

For more than three-score years his pilgrimage 

Led through earth's dreary vale of pain and grief. 

Yet ever patiently he traveled on, 

Helping the weak to bear their tiresome cross, 

And speaking to the faint, despondent ones 

Some kindly words of cheer. But now, alas ! 

The noble heart is stilled — the voice is hushed — 

And cold and motionless the hands that once 

So oft administered to others' wants. 

O that I could record in living words 

The virtues of his life. He well deserves 

As bright a crown as ever decked the brow 

Of bard or hero great. Oft have I gazed 

Upon his face, and thought, how seraph-like — 

How near divine it looked. The tender eyes 

Shone with the light of purity ; no trace 

Of guile the forehead bore ; but age and care 

Some furrows there had wrought, and changed his hair 

To snowy white. Yet still he seemed not old — 

So hopeful was his spirit, and the love 

He had for others gave him strength to fill 

His mission well. We know not why the Lord 

Has called him hence. We wished to have him dwell 

A little longer here, but prayers and tears 

Would not avail. He shrank not from the touch 

Of Death's cold hand; but when God's messengers 

Appeared to guide him home, without a sigh. 

In resignation meek he bade farewell 



CLARA BUSH. 209 

To things of earth, and passed on spirit-wings 

Into the realms of everlasting day. 

A gloom has overspread his once glad home ; 

The shadow of Death's pinions seems to fall 

Where late was shed the sunny light of joy, 

Making the place an Eden of delight. 

The angel. Love, dwelt with the household band, 

And husband, wife, and children, felt secure 

Beneath the shelter of her spreading wings. 

But lo ! the tender ties that bound their hearts 

Are rent in twain. There is a mighty void 

Which time can never fill. An echoed tone 

From the dark sepulcher is wafted back. 

And loving words resound in memory 

Like the lingering cadence of a voice 

That fain would soothe and comfort hearts bereaved. 

O may the God of love and mercy look 

In pity down, and shield with His strong arm 

The widow and the fatherless, and send 

Some guardian angel to attend their steps 

And soften down life's rugged path, and make 

Their burden seem less wearisome to bear.. 

We cannot understand our Father's ways 

And though we sometimes find it hard to yield 

Submissively, and murmur not when most ^ ■ 

He chastens us, methinks a blessing lies 

Just out of sight which time will bring to view. 

'Tis well that earth is not a place of bliss — 



2IO POEMS BY 

» 
A sunny spot ever serene and fair ; 
'Tis best some clouds should intervene between 
This world and that which Jesus has prepared 
For spirits glorified. When shadows fade, 
And sorrows cease, 'twill then be passing sweet 
To gain the haven of eternal rest, 
And meet the loved and lost just "gone before." 



IN MEMORIAM. 

MARTIN o' DANIEL. 



He sleeps in death, he is at rest; 
How sweet to be thus early blest! 
How sweet to die in youth, ere strife 
Has bitter made the cup of life. 

Had he been given length of years, 
Time might have brought him many tears ; 
Through sorrows deep he might have past. 
But to have slept in death at last. 

His soul SO: pure sin might have marred, 
And Heaven's pearly portals barred ; 
The golden harp and jeweled crown, 
Mip'ht never have been claimed his own. 



CLARA BUSH. 211 

It was our Father's loving care 
That called him hence, 'the bliss to share 
Of that bright home where angels sing, 
In adoration of their Kine. 



'Tis well he had a life so brief; 
He is beyond the reach of grief; 
And evermore will dwell above. 
Where Jesus reigns, and all is love. 



Let those of earth who held him dear 
Now wipe away the mournful tear; 
The Book divine doth truly tell. 
The good Lord doeth all things well. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

BURNEY REINEY. 



Little Burney 's only sleeping — 
Only sleeping the sleep of death 

Angels, at the Savior's bidding, 
In mercy stole away his breath. 



212 POEMS BY 

Even though of age so tender, 
He seemed to weary of our earth ; 

Seenried to long for something higher- 
Something of a celestial birth. 



Early his little feet grew tired, 

He paused and faltered by the way ; 

His steps were too frail to longer 
In life's drear, rugged paths to stray. 



Oh how fair he looked, and peaceful, 
In untroubled slumber lying ; 

Not a trace of sorrow lingered, 
Aught to tell of pain in dying. 



But the eyes, once warm and loving. 
Now had lost their tender brightness, 

While their soft and silken fringes 

Graced the cheeks of snowy whiteness. 



Hushed the sound of infant prattle, 
Silent the guileless lips and cold ; 

But a smile death could not banish, 
Whispered of happiness untold. 



CLARA BUSH. 213 

The wee hands were folded lightly, 
And a few sweet flowers were pressed 

In the dainty, dimpled fingers, 
Close to the little heart at rest. 



Though 'twas hard to place the sleeper 
Deep in the lowly grave to lie, 

'Tis but fragile form there resting — 
The soul has found a home on high. 



Oh, bereaved ones ! look above you, 
Though the heart with grief is riven ; 

And remember little children 

Are the best beloved of Heaven. 



Think that even now your Burney 
Is a crown of beauty wearing, 

And, arrayed in spotless vesture. 
All the bliss of Heaven 's sharine. 



Harp of dulcet tone was given ; 

And all around sweet music rings, 
As, with swift and skillful fingers. 

Gladly he sweeps its golden strings. 



214 POEMS BY 

List ! can you not almost fancy 
There softly falls a low refrain, 

Echoed from the heights of Heaven 
As he joins in rapturous strain ? 

Happy, happy little Burney ! 

Far away from pain and weeping. 
Far from all that e'er might trouble, 

Safe within the Savior's keeping. 

Then, O, cease to mourn your lost one, 
Since in God's temple he may dwell ; 

By-and-by you there will meet him, 
Never again to say farewell. 



''OH, CARRY ME HOME TO DIE." 

Such were among the last words of Mr. J. B. Ward, of Rutherford, Tenn. 
Being in delicate health, and thinking a change of climate would be benefit 
cial, he started West, but had only reached St. Louis when stricken down 
with his last illness. Conscious of death's near approach, he requested a 
brother, who attended him, to carry him home to die. Accordingly he was 
conveyed to his native town, and died on I'eaching it, surrounded by sor- 
rowing friends. 

He died in life's early summer — 

In the pride of manhood died, — 
Fearless, with gloomy voyager, 

He crossed to the other side. 



CLARA BUSH. 215 

He was off in a distant city, 

With only a brother near, 
When the sound of death's drear signal 

Fell dolefully upon his ear. 



He deemed this earth-land beautiful. 
And valued the gift of life; 

Surrounded with richest blessings, 
He little knew of its strife. 



But when a messenger holy 

Whispered Heaven's bidding low. 

He meekly resigned all earth-ties 
And even seemed glad to go. 



He shuddered not at the gleaming 
Of Death's sickle, waving there; 

Nor sighed when his chilling fingers 
Pressed lightly the forehead fair. 



But the thought of absent loved ones. 
As the reaper waited nigh — 

And said to that brother, faintly, 
*' Oh, carry me home to die!" 



2i6 POEMS BY 

Mindful of his earnest pleading, 
And to fill a last request, 

They bore him tenderly, gently, 
To the place on earth loved best. 



Just as they had gained the landing - 
Just at the sad journey's end — 

Did the noble heart cease beating. 
And the spirit to God ascend. 



Alas ! there were mourners many ; 

For all, who his virtues knew, 
Felt a tender, sacred sorrow. 

At the loss of one so true. 



They gathered round — those loved ones. 

And sorrowfully they wept; 
And faithful watchers all the night, 

The last solemn vigil kept. 



In the churchyard on the morrow, 
Was hollowed a lonely tomb ; 

And slowly, sadly, they bore him. 
To sleep in its silent gloom. 



CLARA BUSH. 217 

Around the dark vault stood waiting, 

A sad, loving throng and vast ; 
Mournful that a life so noble, 

From earth had so quickly past. 



Then was heaped the damp sod gently, 
Above the untroubled breast; — 

Turning away they could but feel 
God 's chosen the greatest blest. 



Oh, long may those earth-friends cherish 
The mem'ry of Jimmie Ward ! 

And may his pure name shine brightly 
On the record of the Lord. 



"TO DIE IS GAIN." 

Written on the death of Curtis Rigsbee, and dedicated to the bereaved 

parents. 

Gone from earth, ere sorrow's cup was tasted, 
Gone, ere sin's withering blight had wasted 
The heart's sweet purity, and ere the joy 
Of youthful hours was mixed with sad alloy. 



2i8 POEMS BY 

Though he was young, and seemed too fair to die, 
'Twas the Lord who claimed him — question not why, 
He only gives to quickly take away. 
And farewell 's but a word we all must say. 



* 



When most the heart shall miss its dear, lost treasure, 
Think of griefs below, of Heaven's pleasure, 
And strive to feel 'tis well he was taken 
From gloomy earth, in glory to waken. 



Lo, when he had gained God's temple afar. 
The pearly ^ate was gently thrown ajar, 
And angel voices gladly welcomed in 
The soul of one so free from ev'ry sin. 



And Jesus, smiling, gave the crown foretold, 
A fadeless coronal of purest gold ; 
Then, with sweet lyre attuned to grateful song, 
He mingled with the happy seraph throng. 



No fairer cherub roams o'er Heaven's plain. 
No sweeter voice joins in the glad new strain ; 
O what a victory ! to early go 
Forever there to live, secure from woe. 



CLARA BUSH. 219 

Then grieve no more that he was taken hence, 
Since he has found so rich a recompense; 
For while you tarry here, where troubles come, 
He dwells above in happy spirit-home. 



Over that land no shadows ever loom, 
But here we pass through scenes of deepest gloom, 
Each year to us some added sorrow brings. 
While former joys go by on fleetest wings. 



Then why lament the gentle early dead ? 
" Of such God's kingdom is," the Savior said; 
And since death frees the pure in heart from pain, 
Surely, it must be true, " to die is gain." 



LINES 

To the memory of Mrs. Mary F, Lewis. 

Her task is finished, life's journey is o'er. 
The wearisome cross she will bear no more ; 
Earth's grief and bitterness, its care and pain, 
Will sadden her heart, no ! never again. 



220 POEMS BY 

She walks in heavenly beauty now, 
The crown of righteousness rests on her brow, 
Her robe is washed in the blood of the Lamb, 
She bears in proud triumph victory's palm, 
And the glad new song, in praise of her King, 
With the angel choir she has joined to sing. 



She had loved the Lord — loved His holy ways, 
His name gave solace in life's saddest days, — 
Trusting His wisdom. His mercy and love, 
And steadfastly fixing her hopes above, 
Most valiantly the narrow way she trod 
Which leads to the princely palace of God; 
And now doth realize that perfect bliss. 
Found in the presence of His holiness. 



We speak of Heaven — the glad spirit-home, 
Where weary pilgrims rest never to roam, 
Where, from God's throne, life's pure limpid river, 
Freely will flow for ever and ever ; 
We picture a sky unclouded and bright, 
A clime where fall not the shadows of night, 
A vast spreading plain, with verdure and trees. 
And flowers, that make ambrosial the breeze; 
In fancy we can see the streets of gold. 
And throngs of rejoicing angels behold ; 



CLARA BUSH. 221 

And the spacious walls of the city fair 
Are beautiful, beautiful beyond compare. 

Ah ! what is life, that we should heave one sigh 
When at last its faint spark flickers to die ? 
The souls of the just are wafted above 
To live with the glorified Prince of love. 
Then why do we weep for our friend so blest? 
Why grieve that her wearied soul should rest? 
Why mourn that the cold sod is heaped above 
The bosom, once warm with tenderest love? 
To give back the faint, fleeting breath of pain, 
For life immortal is a glorious gain. 
We know it, but still a funeral knell 
Echoes in our hearts ; and the last farewell 
Lingers in memory, like a sad refrain ; 
Yet we trust to sometime meet once again. 
Where the word " farewell" will be unspoken, 
And love's tender ties remain unbroken. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

BRINNIE SIMMONS. 



Our gentle friend in death reposes, 

Dreamless her slumber, sweet her rest; 
Over her grave strew summer roses, 
And think her blest. 



222 POEMS BY 

She faded like some fair, sweet flower ; 

Death's mighty hand love could not stay : 
Her pure young soul at eve's calm hour 
Was called away. 



Her fair brow swept by sunny tresses, 

Is icy now, her sweet voice still ; 
Her once bright eye the pale lid presses, 
Yet it is well. 



Though in the darksome tomb she 's sleeping. 

Let not many sad tears be shed ; 
She would not have beloved ones weeping, 
That she is dead. 



In love to be remembered ever, 

She would but ask of friends behind ; 
Then let not death love's fond ties sever. 
But closer bind. 



O, let us keep each link bright shining 

In love's sweet chain from year to year, 
With fairest immortelles entwining 
Her name so dear. 



CLARA BUSH. 223 

Unknown to her were grief and sadness, 
Her life was like one fair, sweet day ; 
The rosy Hght of hope and gladness 
Illumed her way. 



She left us when the summer flowers 

Were blooming bright 'neath sunny skies, 
But now a lovelier world than ours 
Gladdens her eyes. 



Fields of beauty and fountains flowing, 

Portals of pearl and streets of gold, 
Music and song, and soft winds blowing, 
And love untold. 



O, world so perfect ! O, sweet haven ! 

Where comes not death nor dreary night, 
But where the crown of life is given, 
And robe of white. 



Dimly we see, as in a vision. 

Our sweet friend with an angel band, 
Roaming o'er the fields Elysian, 
With harp in hand. 



224 POEMS BY 

And, listening, in fancy's seeming. 
We catch the low echoed refrain 
Of her glad song ; and see, faint gleaming, 
The shining plain. 



In that blest land beyond death's river. 

The land of which God is the light. 
She will live in bliss forever — 
A seraph bright. 



Delightful thought — in bliss foreverj 

May we, too, land on that fair shore, 
Whene'er we cross the mystic river. 
This brief life o'er. 



To find a home in God's own mansion. 

To worship at the Savior's feet. 
To let the soul have full expansion. 
Were joy complete. 



When closes life's dark day of sorrow, 
' Twould be for grief a sweet reward, 
To spend the bright eternal morrow 
With our dear Lord. 



CLARA BUSH. 225 

IN MEMORIAM. 

MATTIE THOMAS. 

Our hearts are sad to-day. 
A sweet friend that we loved is dead; 
Calmly, gently her spirit fled, 

From sorrow-land away. 

On airy pinions bright, 
Her guileless soul was borne above ; 
And now she dwells where all is love. 

And where God is the light. 

Only a few short years 
She tarried here, our lives to bless — 
A higher life of holiness 

Is now forever hers. 

Full many, many tears, 
In grief we've shed ; but well we know, 
That she is spared the cares and woe, 

That come with lengthened years. 

Though death has closed her eyes, 
And stilled the heart that warmly beat, 
And hushed the voice so kind and sweet, 

We know in Paradise 



226 POEMS BY 

With angels bright she stands, 
And sings the praises of her Lord ; 
While dulcet harp in sweet accord 

She sweeps with skillful hands. 



We feel that she is blest, 
The shadows of the darksome tomb 
Fold but the senseless clay in gloom- 

The soul in light is drest. 



Yet still our hearts are lone, 
We did not deem the Lord so soon 
Would claim again his precious boon. 

But dear, sweet Mattie 's gone. 



A shadow seems to fall 
Around us, since she went away ; 
A mist of sadness veils the day, 

As with a dismal pall. 



Her happy smiles we miss, 
And miss the light of her lovelit eyes. 
That wore the tint of azure skies, 

And look of holiness. 



CLARA BUSH. 227 

She'll come to us no more, 
With loving words of cheer ; but we 
Will soon cross over life's dark sea, 

And gain the other shore. 



Where we will meet again ; 
And speak no more the sad farewell, 
But ever there together dwell, 

Secure from care and pain. 



Then why should we deplore 
Our gentle friend ? — ' tis for the best 
That God has called her home, to rest 

With Him for evermore. 



• IN MEMORIAM. 

MISS BETTIE FULLERTON. 

She died in youth when life was sweet, 
Ere the heart had trouble known ; 

Ere the brow was furrowed with care 
Her mission on earth was done. 



228 POEMS BY 

Alas ! 'twas hard to bid adieu 
To one that we loved so well ; 

And round her lowly, new-made grave, 
Many tears of sorrow fell. 



Though she sleeps in earth's cold bosom. 

We can forget her never; 
The cords oi love that bind our hearts 

Are too stronsf for death to sever. 



How oft in fancy, even now, 
We can see her pleasant face. 

And the vision to us so sweet 
Time can nevermore erase. 



We grieve to think death's icy hand 
Was so soon upon her laid, 

Yet from memory's brightest page 
Her dear name will never fade. 



Her kindly words and gentle tones 
Will be heard on earth no more. 

Yet how sweet must be the sound 
Of her voice on Heaven's shore ! 



CLARA BUSH. 229 

Earth at best is full of sorrow, 

Then why should we mourn the blest? 

We should find some consolation 
In believing she's at rest. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

ELLA SWEETS. 



She died when summer skies were bright, 
And fragrant flowers, bathed in light. 

Were all in bloom ; 
It seemed a fitting time for mirth — 
So fair a vesture wore the earth — 
But, ah, the flowers but had birth 

To deck the tomb. 



The angel Death with lightest tread. 
To fill his mission, onward sped 

Without delay ; 
He passed the aged, worn with care, 
And left the weak their cross to bear, 
But youthful Ella, loved and fair, 

He took aAvay. 



230 POEMS BY 

Gently he bore her o'er the tide 
Of dark chill waters flowing wide ; 

Now, on the shore, 
Where all the ransomed people dwell. 
Her songs of rapture rise and swell, 
The praises of her Lord to tell 

For evermore. 

We know that she is doubly blest, — 
A seraph in white raiment drest, 

With harp of gold ; 
But oh, since she from us has gone, 
Our hearts have felt bereft and lone, 
And in them dwells an undertone 

Of grief untold. 

That face of beauty haunts us yet. 
And nevermore can we forget 

That voice so sweet ; 
Its tender tones we seem to hear 
In softest echoes sounding near. 
As wafted down from that bright sphere 

Where angels meet. 

Almost our selfish hearts rebel — 
'Tis hard, so hard, to say '"Tis well" 
When love's strong ties 



CLARA BUSH. 231 

At God's behest by death are riven, 
Though to our well beloved is given 
The good exchange of earth for Heaven — 
Home of the skies. 

The road we travel is so drear 

We need her kindly words to cheer 

Us on our way ; 
Awhile we journeyed hand in hand, 
But soon she left our little band 
And passed before into the land 

Of endless day. 

But let us faint not nor despond. 
For Heaven hes not far beyond 

Life's darkened shore ; 
But let us lift our hearts in pfayer. 
And ask in that bright city fair 
To sometime meet our loved one, where 

Friends part no more. 



LINES. 

TO THE MEMORY OF MARY G. PORTER. 

Forever gone ! O, words of sadness, 
They have a dirge-note in their tone ; 

We speak them now in tender sorrow — 
A dear, dear friend — -forever gone ! 



232 POEMS BY 

Death placed his seal upon her youthful brow, 
Closed the bright eye, and stole away 

The cheek's warm glow, and the lip's glad smile, 
And bade the heart be still for aye. 



Only an image of clay was left, 

Only a form in silence lay 
With marble-like face, untraced by care, 

And the pure spirit flown away. 



Gently they folded the pale, cold hands. 
And lightly wrapt the shroud around ; 

And softly lowered the sleeper down 
To her lowly bed under-ground. 



Alas ! that earth so soon should cover 
The form of one so dear to all ; 

Oh, why so quickly did the Giver 
Again his gracious gift recall ? 



Oh, why ? we, in our weakness, question ; 

We can but feebly understand 
Why our meek friend, in virgin beauty. 

Should feel the touch of Death's chill hand. 



CLARA BUSH. 233 

But list ! now comes a spirit whisper, 

'Tis saying, "God, in mercy wise, 
Chose not to longer leave in bondage 
■ A soul so fit for Paradise." 



Even from her childhood's dawning, 
Pure and unblemished was her life ; 

There seemed divineness in her being, 
Unsuited to a world of strife. 



Early she owned the name of Jesus, 
Took up His cross, and followed on ; 

But soon was reached the port of ransom. 
And the fair crown of promise won. 



She made our world so much the brighter. 
Gave our lives so much of pleasure. 

That now, with hearts bereft and lonely, 
We can but mourn our sweet lost treasure. 



Forbearing ever, and forgiving, 

With loving words and willing aid. 

Like some ministering angel she 
The griefs of others lighter made. 



234 POEMS BY 

We shall so sadly, sadly miss her, 
It was so good to have her dwell 

Among us, that — though God has ordered- 
We find it hard to say " 'Tis well." 



Yet let us not be overselfish, 

But strive to think our loss for best ; 

Since it is but the happy gaining 
Of our beloved one's endless rest. 



O what a blest and grand transition ! 

What a glorious thing to rise 
Above this land of many sorrows. 

And live in bliss beyond the skies. 



EPITAPHS. 



How peacefully she sleeps ; no thought of care 
Can ever disturb her silent slumber ; 
One is lost to earth, but in lands more fair 
Is added one to the angels' number. • 



CLARA BUSH. 235 

Mourn not his early doom, though well beloved 
By all who knew his kind and noble heart ; 
'Tis but a transition — the soul removed 
Doth realize above life's better part. 



She was chosen, the loved and good, 
The Savior claimed her from our band, 
But ah, we would not if we could 
Recall her thence from heaven's land. 



Not age alone in death must sleep, 
The young and gay must lie as low ; 
Let the bereaved no longer weep, 
It is the Lord who wills it so. 



Behold ! the stately form here lowly lies, 
The noble heart is cold beneath the sod, 
But the pure spirit reigns beyond the skies 
In bright, celestial palaces of God. 



Death early came at God's all wise command 
And took a precious link from out our chain ; 
Yet still we trust our Father's loving hand 
Will safely guide us to that better land. 
And re-unite the severed link again. 



236 POEMS BY 

In many hearts a void was made, 
When in the grave he low was laid, 
Yet the dear name of him so kind, 
With fadeless immortelles is twined. 



He was an only son, 
In prime of manhood called away; 
Alas ! we find it hard to say, 

't Father, thy will be done." 



Not only to old age comes death. 
The youthful, too, must feel his breath ; 
O, all ye thoughtless ones, beware ! 
And for life's closing hour prepare. 



Released from all earth's weary care. 
It seems it must be sweet to lie 

With folded hands and gently sleep, 
Where no disturbance can draw nieh. 



How sweetly death rescues sorrowing ones 
From life so toilsome and dreary, 

No sleep so peaceful, untroubled and deep, 
As the last long sleep of the weary. 



CLARA BUSH. 237 

SILENT VOICES. 

I am alone, yet do not lonely feel, 
Although no living creature now is near ; 
Each object has a story to reveal, 
And a thousand voices I seem to hear. 

My room with pleasant company is rife, 
In all things round companionship I find ; 
Myriads of soft tones tell me of life — 
Of its sorrows and sweetest joys combined. 

But harken ! what are my guests all saying ? 
I would interpret their strange whisperings, — 
Come back, O roving thought ! from thy straying, 
And listen to the message each one brings. 



Softer than music's strain, in echo wafted 
By vesper breezes gently from afar — 
Unto mine ear, pre-eminent, are drifted 
Tones — sweeter, dearer than all others are. 

It is the voices of flowers ringing, 
As they nestle in dainty vases near ; 
I am enchanted as by fairy-singing, 
And first will lend to them attentive ear. 



238 POEMS BY 

Those blossoms — culled by the hand of a friend, 
Some from the wood, some from garden bowers, 
All lovingly mingle — the lowly and grand, — 
The gems of the garden and wild wood flowers. 



Enfolded they each have a mystic tale, 
Yet over me waves thought's fairy-like wand, 
Dispelling the folds of the darksome veil 
That my heart their language may understand. 



The daisy looks up with a brow as fair 
As the pure, unsullied brow of youth ; 
Its tiny white petals all plainly bear 
The type of innocence and holy truth. 



The fair convolvulus rich odors impart. 
Yet its fleeting beauties in presage tell 
Of that rare virtue, humility of heart, 
Befitting frail humanity so well. 



Change is written on the bright pimpernel. 
While the hawthorne bids us to hope anew, 
And the violet's gentle breathings tell 
The worth of a heart that is always true. 



CLAJiA BUSH. 

The tulip — the gayest flower of earth, 
Seems quite to eclipse the pale mignonette ; 
Yet its gaudy vesture has not the worth 
Of this lowly though fragrant floweret. 



On fragile stems dainty bell-flowers tremble, 
And as their chimes mingle in concord sweet. 
In fancy I see the fairies assemble, 
A story of gratitude to repeat. 



The meek white lilac, so chaste and so frail, 
Is of innocent youth an emblem meet; 
And the pale lily, the queen of the vale. 
Where sorrow once sat enthrones pleasure sweet. 



I can from the snow-ball enrobed in white, 
Pure thoughts elicit of fair spirit-land ; 
And the Bethlehem star recalls the glad night 
When a lone star guided the good shepherd band. 



O Flora! thy beauteous lessons I love. 
They ennoble the heart and exalt the mind ; 
Methinks they were writ by the band above, 
And unto the children of earth assigned. 



239 



24 o FORMS BY 

But farewell, Flora, though sweet thy story, 
Let for awhile thy siren voice be still ; 
Of lowly things and good, of fame and glory, 
Yet other guests have many things to tell. 

II. 

Here is a book of song, — I turn its leaves, — 
From ev'ry page soft strains of music float; 
The tuneful rhelody my heart receives. 
And echoes back each faintly-sounding note. 

With unknown minstrelsies I hold commune ; 
Although I've never heard I seem to hear 
Soundings of their harpstrings in sweet attune, 
Like seraph songs, fall on my spirit's ear. 

Immortal bards ! Time cannot dim thy pages, 
Nor change nor blight fall on thy soul-lit thought ; 
A beacon-light for all succeeding ages 
Will live those words by inspiration wrought. 

III. 

An open casket, next, doth kindly greet; 
'Tis filled with treasures — not precious stones and gold, 
But little gifts and dear mementoes sweet, — 
Jewels whose worth to me is all untold. 



CLARA BUSH. 241 

Here is a message and a faded flower, 
Love's tender tokens sent from a distant land — 
Their words are whispered low but have power 
To closer bind the heart with friendship's band. 



And hidden half 'mid other relics rare 

A chain of fairest ivory is gleaming, 

Each snowy link loved words of friendship bear — 

Words plain to me if but in fancy seeming. 



Here I find the pictured forms and faces 
Of two gentle sisters, drawn in happy youth ; 
Upon their brows is seen not sin's dark traces, 
But the mild, holy light of love and truth. 



Their golden hair falls o'er their shoulders lightly. 
Like waves of sunlit river softly gliding ; 
And their eyes, reflecting beams so brightly, 
Bespeak the mind where noble thoughts are biding. 



Their cheeks wear just the faintest tint of rose, 
Their lips have darkened into deeper hue ; 
I kiss them now, and seeming they unclose 
And whisper in response, "Our love is true." 



242 POEMS BY 

These little words a pleasant truth impart, 

I feel that earth no richer boon contains 

Than the undying love of some true heart, 

That through all time and change the same, remains. 



Here is a sacred hymn, oft sung by one 
Who blessed my youth with all a sister's love ; 
But fate has parted us, and she has gone 
To sing the glad new song they sing above. 



Gone — oh ! what a plaintive, sad-sounding word, 
And my heart re-echoes forever gone ! 
Yet her lovely f6rm and words long unheard 
Come back to me now while musing alone. 



I think of the night when through darksome space 
The Death-angel came at the Lord's command. 
And none could resist his entering pace; 
Nor stay the sweep of his conquering hand. 



She was young to die, and 'twas hard to give 
Even to angel's keeping one so dear ; 
Yet gladly she went forever to live 
In the land unknown to a sigh or tear. 



CLARA BUSH. 243 

A comforting spirit doth whisper me 
That the sainted dead are the greatest blest ; 
Then let me not murmur at God's decree, 
His ev'ry bidding must be for the best. 



IV. 

There comes now a voice of wisdom and truth 
From the deep-toned clock to my heart appeaUng, 
A pensive story of vanishing youth 
Is the monitor of time revealing. 

To me its ceaseless click doth plainly tell 
A solemn tale of frail man's fleeting, life ; 
It strikes the hours, which but seem the knell 
Sad tolling when has ceased the weary strife. 

Yes, it tells me by its ceaseless ticking 
That quickly will end this life of sorrow, — 
That Death, for some victim ever seeking. 
Perchance may claim me ere comes the morrow. 

Dear old time-piece ! I hail thee as my friend ; 
Thy gentle warning will I strive to heed ; 
Oh ! that each day I may for better spend. 
And fill each moment with some goodly deed. 



244 POEMS BY 

V. 

Near by the clock a little box is set, 

Holding a floral wreath of hair composed ; 

It tells of friends, and bids me not forget 

Those over whom the grave has long since closed. 

I love to view each bud and open rose — 
Some dark, some golden, and some silver gray ; 
In fancy I can see the brows of those 
Once over which the shining tresses lay. 

And even now falls low upon mine ear 
Their pleasant accents faintly echoing ; 
I see bright eyes, and merry laughter hear, 
And music, floating soft from dulcet string. 

O memory ! thou hast a boundless sway. 
The heart-strings vibrate to thy gentle touch. 
Oblivion cannot wrap in dark array 
The forms of dear ones that I love so much. 



VI. 

Upon the wall is hung a solemn picture, 
A fair, young girl in death has closed her eyes, 
Yet from earth's gloom, in triumphant rapture, 
Her joyous spirit rises to the skies. 



CLARA BUSH. 245 

So tranquil looks the brow in sleep unbroken, 
I almost think in death there is no pain, 
And the spirit, heaven-bound, doth token 
"Though we be dead yet shall we live again." 

I half forget earth's darkness and its woe. 
While gazing on the white-robed form ascending, 
And even list to catcK the sounds that flow 
From angel harps with songs of joy blending. 

A pleasant solace to my heart so weary 
Is this sweet presage of the life to come. 
And my dreary lot seems far less dreary 
Brightened with the hope of a fairer home. 

VII. 

The winds on soft wings glide into my dwelling, 
They bear a message of Messiah's love, 
In happy murmurs they are gladly telling 
Of the great goodness of the God above. 

They have been roaming o'er fair lands away, 
Have long traversed the wide domains of earth, 
And from the nooks where treasures hidden lay 
Have brought to light rare gems of priceless worth. 



246 POEMS BY 

They found, where leafy shades were deepest cast, 
Some unseen flowerets of fragrance mild, 
And stole a sweet aroma as they passed 
Those obscure blossoms of the woodlands wild. 



They paused a moment o'er a singing stream. 
Where happy birds joined in the merry strain ; 
They caught the spirit of the gladsome theme. 
And onward glided— chanting a refrain. 



Over the hills they swept and down the glade. 
And 'neath the low-hung branches sped along, 
Till fresh and cool just from the woodland shade 
They've come to cheer me now with their glad song. 



They fan my fevered brow as fain to soothe 
My weary brain and sad, sad heart to rest ; 
In mild caresses o'er my face they move, 
And on my lips are odor kisses prest. 



O gales of melody, their musical flow 
Throws over my soul a magical spell, 
As in joyous measures and cadence low 
A wondrous tale of creation they tell. 



CLARA BUSH. 247 

VIII. 

The golden sunbeams, through the window steahng, 
Reflect a halo of congenial light ; 
The smiling rays are sweetest truths revealing, 
And on my heart like fairy fingers write. 

I read the tablet o'er as soft they trace. 
Their theme is of the All-wise Father's care ; 
They tell His mercies, His undying grace, 
And point to blessings sweet that all may share. 

I love the story that the sunbeams tell, 
I treasure up each word of glowing hue, 
With thankfulness they make my bosom swell. 
And teach my soul to praise the Lord anew. 

The mission of the sunlight, O how grand! 
Unnumbered blessings to fair earth it brings ; 
The great Divinity has nobly planned, 
And for some sfood tend all created thinsrs. 



IX. 

But harken me ! whence comes that voice ? It fills 
My inmost soul with strange and holy feeling ; 
It wakes the heart with mild electric thrills. 
As fall upon the ear its tones appealing. 



248 POEMS BY 

Ah ! it is the voice of the long ago, 
RecalHng days when all was brightest bloom, - 
Fair, sunny days, like only youth may know, 
Ere come the shadows of life's deeper gloom. 



Fond recollection, queen of thought's high throne, 
Is roaming now the chambers of my heart ; 
And memory's gentle fingers wide have drawn 
Oblivion's dark drapery apart. 



And through the vista of departed years 
I see a youthful throng, and hear the chime 
Of merry tongues, that bid me dry all tears 
And smile again as oft in former time. 



They tell me life is full of joy ; that earth 
Is like an Eden — an elysian land ; 
Deluded youth ! soon in thy cup of mirth 
Will fall dark, bitter dregs from sorrow's hand. 



Lo ! even now their brows have sadder grown ; 
The victor. Time, has claimed sweet childhood's hour ; 
He holds each passing moment as his own, 
And proudly sways the sceptre of his power. 



CLARA BUSH. 249 

X. 

The scene has changed ; — the spirit of the mind 
Comes bearing up the records of the past ; 
The annals of ages gone are all enshrined, 
And compile a volume wondrous and vast. 

The book lies open now, and, one by one, 
A shadow-hand turns o'er each mystic leaf; 
Some are illumed with deeds of glory done, 
And some, alas ! are dark with sin and grief. 

I see the beautiful, the good, the brave, 
Adown life's road in grandeur march along. 
Until they reach the dark and lowly grave. 
And mingle there — one solemn, silent throng. 

Oh, how with mighty awe my bosom heaves 
While viewing o'er the checkered scenes of life! 
Nations arise and fall, and each one leaves 
Some trace of foot-prints blending in the strife. 

Strange is the lot of man and strange his doom ; 
Not power of mortals can e'er dispel 
The veil that wraps the secrets of the tomb. 
Nor aught of death's deep, dread mysteries tell. 



250 POEMS BY 

Vainly have I listened and longed to hear 
Some voice supernal float down, to reveal 
Eternity's wonders, and banish the fears 
That over the faint heart gloomily steal. 

But there comes not even a sigh, to breathe 
What wonders are vailed in futurity's gloom ; 
And all is silent as the sleeper beneath, 
When I ask the mysteries of the tomb. 

I know the spirit immortal will reign, 
And a crown to the ransomed be given. 
Yet death and eternity doth contain 
Secrets that are sacred alone to heaven. 

O cease restless heart ! cease thy longing desire, 
Knowest not thou the great God is all-wise? 
Then let not a thing so lowly aspire 
To solve the deep meaning of death ere it dies. 



THE POET'S LYRE. 

I hold the poet's lyre, 

And though the sounds that swell 
Mingle with rude discords, 

I love the tones so well 



CLARA BUSH. 251 

That still I keep on trying, 
My unskilled fingers plying, 
Hoping — listening — sighing — 

For some diviner spell 
To bring forth sweets, which lying 

Within its cords must dwell. 

I know rare melody 

Doth but in silence sleep, 
For grand is the attune 

When master fingers sweep ! 
Oft I listen to the sound, 
As the mystic cords rebound — 
Listen with a love profound, 
Till I forget to weep, 
So rapturous is the compound 
Of airs prolonged and deep. 

Sometimes I can fancy, 

While playing all alone, 
That a higher beauty 

Is blending with the tone ; 
Yet perhaps the worthy sage, 
And the critics of our age. 
Would call it but an idle rage ; 
And, duly to atone, 
Wish to blot the cherished page. 
And leave my song unknown. 



252 POEMS BY 



Or from my unskilled hand 

Might seek the lyre to take, 
Because my stroke had failed 

Such melody to make 
As which fell when Homer's might, 
With vying minstrels, gave to light 
Strains of power, to excite 

The nations to awake, — 
s Sounding through Cimmerian night 

Lethargic thralls to break. 

Ah, men of lore austere ! 

The highest touch of skill 
Doth scarce suffice to please 
Their too exacting will ; 
/ cannot hope of giving 
A strain to suit all living. 
Yet if kind friends and loving, 

When my best numbers swell — 
Could speak some words approving, 
It would repay me well. 

I do so long to give 

Some tender, pleasing strain, — 
Something that still will live 
In echoing refrain 
When the fingers that have swept 
The cords so oft shall be lapped 



CLARA BUSH. 25 

Over the breast the shroud hath wrapt — 
The breast made free from pain — 
And the eyes that oft have wept 
Shall never weep again. 



Oh ! think not that it is 

Desire of worldly fame 
That makes me wish to have 
A never dying name; 
Too heavy the cross I bear — 
Too much of sorrow I share — 
For a vain renown to care ; 

To merit naught of blame, 
And do good everywhere, 
Has been my life's great aim. 



Though fate has portioned me 

So much of bitter woe, 
'Twould sweetly recompense, 
Could I but only sow 
In life's universal field 
Some choice seed of goodly yield. 
Which would prove my love revealed ; 
And, nourished with the flow 
Of my heart's deep fount unsealed, 
In fadeless verdure grow. 



254 POEMS BY 

I sometimes feel that I 

Have some good mission here ; 
And though my cheeks are oft 
Made wet with sorrow's tear, 
There's pleasure in believing 
That, even while I 'm grieving — 
In life's great warp I 'm weaving 
A weft that will appear 
A heritage worth leaving 
My fellow-creatures dear. 

I love the world, and fain 

Would tune my harp to give 
Those themes that best might serve 
To teach how all should live ; 
The beauties would I instill 
Of true friendship and good-will, 
And would sing of peace until 
The nations would approve. 
And all here together live 
In fellowship and love. 

O, tuneful lyre ! give back 

Some thrilling notes of song 
In tones of sweet accord, 

To move the worldling throng, — 
Let the floating echo sound, 
And no place of rest be found — 



CLARA BUSH. 255 

Till it circles earth around; 

Ancf, with love's tendrils strong, 
Let the nation's heart be bound' 
To mine through ages long. 



REFLECTIONS 

ON THE TWENTY-SIXTH ANNIVERSARY OF MY BIRTH. 

My years are twenty-six to-day; I scarce can think it so, — 

Can scarce believe that I have seen so many summers go. 

It is not that they 've been of joy to seem so briefly passed, ' 

And yet I know not why it is they all have flown so fast ; 

I only know that not a day has been so sweet to me 

That I would call one moment back, again its bliss to see. 

The wings of Time are none too swift; I'd have them onward 

sweep. 
And bear me quickly o'er the waste of life's expansive deep ! 
Looking aback the vista drear of those departed years, 
Pleasure's/^w sunbeams fall upon full many, many tears. 
The flowers that were budding fair, when life's first scene I viewed, 
All faded, and their withered leaves the way have thickly strewed ; 
And with a shroud of sombre hue have densely overspread 
The many graves of youthful hopes that have so long been dead. 
While musing now a vision flits before my mental view — 



256 POEMS BY 

A reflex of those early, hopes, all proven most untrue ; 

Faint recollection o'er my mind the mirage lightly throws, 

Like dreams of pleasantness that lend enchantment to repose. 

I had not thought, in life's fair morn, that e'er a cloud could rise 

Above the bright horizon, to eclipse the sunny skies; 

But while I gazed in ecstacy upon the lovely scene, 

A shadow of the darkest cast did looming intervene. 

I turned aside, and with regret my vanished pleasures wept ; 

For close within its gloomy folds my sweetest joys were wrapt. 

Not yet is it for me to know zvhy fate seemed thus unkind. 

Yet sometimes I have thought at last when I the meaning find 

'Twill be like throwing off a veil, and leaving to the view 

A world of beauty, inconceived, intrinsic, grand and new! 

Though mortal reason is too weak to solve God's mighty will, 

I cannot think His providence will deal me always ill. 

But list ! there comes a whisper now, 'tis saying "No, dear heart! 

Through holy wisdom God reveals only a minute part 

Of His great power, but enough to guide thee to His throne. 

Where all the hidden will unfold — the secret be made known. 

And in the happy bye-and-bye, the promised land of peace, 

Thy spirit will forget all grief and find a sweet surcease." 

It is the voice of faith divine, coming my hopes to cheer ; 

The accents fall so soothingly — so softly on mine ear. 

They make me now to not deplore once cherished sweets of earth, 

Which were at most but futile things of evanescent birth ; 

And though the gloom still spreads around, I look beyond and see 

A beacon light, that leads to where from sorrows all are free ; 

And even I can fancy that I hear an echoed tone 



CLARA BUSH. 257 

Of angel voices, joined in songs of praise around God's throne ! 

Then let me wait on patiently the clouds to disappear, 

For 'twill not be so very long, I trust, till I shall hear 

The Great Redeemer calling me and bidding me to come. 

To dwell above through endless day in Heaven's blissful home. 



QUESTIONINGS. 

O, when will close life's dreary day. 

And angels come 
And bear my weary soul away 

To their bright home? 



Shall I soon be safe forever 

In heaven's fold? - 
Or be left to cross Death's river 

When I am old? 



Or soon or late, where shall I die? 

With friends most dear ? 
Or far away 'neath alien sky? — 

No loved ones near. 



2 58 POEMS BY 

Oh, who will watch with me and pray 

When like a pall 
Over my life's declining day 

The shadows fall? 



Who will wait till this feeble breath 

Has passed away, 
And robe my form, when still in death, 

In fit array? 



Who '11 close my eyes and lips so cold, 

When I 'm at rest. 
And place my hands in gentle fold 

Upon my breast ? 



Who in sorrow for me will weep. 

When I am dead? 
And who the last sad vigil keep 

Around my bed? 



Who will place the cover of gloom 

With kindly hands, 
And bear me to the open tomb. 

That waiting stands? 



CLARA BUSH. 259 

Who will lower the casket deep 

In earth's cold bed? 
And who the damp sod gently heap 

Above my head? 



Will many miss me when I 'm gone 

From earth away ? 
Will the hearts of any feel lone 

For one brief day? 

Will those who say they love me now 

My grave e'er seek, 
And leave a tear-drop, to avow 

The words they speak. 

But vain, vain is this questioning, 

For none can tell 
What the dread, future day will bring,- 

And it is well. 



DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. 

When over earth's bosom the mantle of night 
Is silently folded, and all things bright 
Seem sepulchered in one vast tomb, and a pall 
Over the face of Nature seems to fall, — 



26o POEMS BY 

' Tis then, mid gloom and solitude, I love 
To lift my thoughts from earth to things above. 
Then seems the fittest time to hold converse 
With the Great Ruler of the Universe — 
The time with spirits to commune. I feel 
That airy forms then round me softly steal, 
And faintly hear strange voices whispering, 
As if some tiding they had come to bring. 
Or holy message from the other land. 
But their language I cannot understand. 

My mind is filled, at such a time as this, 
With vague questionings of the land of bliss ; 
Where is that happy realm? how far away? 
What form of being is it that mortals say 
Must live forever? 



To thee I appeal, 
Ye sleeping nations ! Canst not thou reveal 
The great hereafter — the mighty mystery 
Of man's glorious immortality? 
No answer from the grave : its bosom cold 
The secret that I ask will ne'er unfold. 

Wise men have explored the deep sea of thought, 
But from out its depths no key have brought 
That can unlock the mystical portals 
Of futurity. Yet feeble mortals 
Keep striving still to draw the veil aside 



CLARA BUSH. 261 



That hovers o'er eternity, to hide 
It from their vision. 



We speak of death, but oh, 
How Httle of its meaning do we know ! 
We call it the night of a fairer day — 
The dawn of a new life, to live alway ; 
We think to arise on airy pinion, 
And go where death has no more dominion ; 
We say that beyond the dark, chilling tide. 
There is a fair region where souls abide, 
Whose beautiful plains have only been trod 
By the feet of the holy host of God. 

There is something strange and mystical in death, 
Something solemn in giving up the breath, 
Alone, through untried ways, the freed soul flies. 
The dread, hidden future to reaHze ! 
There are some that shudder and grow pale with fear 
When the shore of life they are drawing near, 
They dread the power that can ever still 
The heart's quick beating and the pulse's thrill ; 
Yet others go down to the river's brink. 
And from its chill waters do not even shrink. 
But stand on its margin waiting to hear 
The signal for sailing, without a fear; 
The rising billows have not the power 
To appall the brave at the parting hour, 



262 POEMS BY 

And the boatmen doth their hearts so beguile 
■ That the solemn voyage they make with a smile. 



We may wait with friends on the silent shore, 
May lovingly watch till they all pass o'er — 
And resigned may whisper "The Lord knows best," 
But in our hearts there is a strange unrest, 
And we sigh, to think only to the blest 
Are Heaven's mysteries made manifest. 
Yet what doth it matter? — soon we must sleep 
The final sleep of death, dreamless and deep ; 
And when to new life we arise ' twill be 
To realize the great eternity. 



EVEN-TIDE. 



'Tis sweet to meditate alone, 

At quiet even-tide ; 
I give the reins to memory. 
And let thought range at liberty 

The realms of fancy wide. 

The fairest visions come and go, 
Amid the shades that fall ; 



CLARA BUSH. 263 

Scenes that I viewed in other years, 

With eyes unused to sorrow's tears, 

Are mirrored on the wall. 

I see a little, limpid brook, 

Half by the shadows hid ; 
And hear a murmur sweet as song, 
As it gently glides along 

Over its pebbly bed. 

Upon its banks of mossy green. 

Like gems the daisies gleam ; 
And sweet wildroses, early blown, 
Some leaves of pink and pearl have thrown 

Upon the rippling stream. 

Of yore I often wandered here. 

Seeking wildwood flowers, 
Which gave me such delight, before 
One shadow was reflected o'er 

Life's fair auroral hours. 

Loved voices that have long been still, 

I hear at even-tide ; 
And phantom forms of dear friends dead, 
With an airy, noiseless tread, 

Before my vision glide. 



264 POEMS BY 

Strange thoughts of the unknown Beyond, 

Come crowding to my brain ; 
I think of Christ, the crucified — 
Think how in sacrifice He died, 
That man might Hve again. 

'Twas eve, when in Gethsemane 
The Savior was betrayed ; 
A sorrowful and lonely wail 
Rose from the gloom-enshrouded vale, 
Where meek He knelt and prayed. 

My heart draws near unto the Lord, 

In prayer, at even-tide; 
r think of His great love for me, 
I see the cross on Calvary, 

By His own life-blood dyed. 

I ask Him to forgive all sins. 

Committed through the day, 
And fold me closer to His breast, 
And let me there securely rest. 
Never, never to stray. 

At eve there steals a sweeter calm, 

My weary spirit o'er; 
I feel that with the setting sun. 



CLARA BUSH. 265 



My life-work here is nearer done, 
And nearer Heaven's shore. 



When misty shadows fill my room. 
And perfect stillness reigns, 

In fancy sweet I sometimes hear 

A minstrelsy of seraphs near, 
Singing celestial strains. 

O may the pale death-angel ceme 

For me at close of day; 
When the last sunbeams leave the sky, 
It seems the fittest time to die. 

And pass from earth away. 

Methinks 'twould then be even sweet 
To quit this weary home, 

For death's deep sleep will only be 

The prelude to eternity, 

Where death no more can come. 



The dusky veils of evening 

Are spread by God 's own hand ; 
He makes His omnipresence known. 
And rules the world from His high throne, 
By infinite command. 



266 POEMS BY 

O, weary heart of mine, have cheer, 

And in God's love confide; 
So swift the moments onward flow, 
' Twill not be very long, I know, 
Ere comes lifes even-tide. 

And, then, O may my soul find rest, 

Where saints in peace abide; 
I hope, wlien death's repose is o'er. 
To wake on Heaven's blissful shore, 
Where 'comes no even-tide. 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

I think of it so oft — 

The hour of death; 
When brightly dawns the day. 
When fades its latest ray, 
I think, soon '11 pass away 
This feeble breath. 



It is not known what hour 
Death 's voice will call ; 
Alike, in summer's bloom. 



CLARA BUSH. 267 

And cheerless winter's gloom, 
Into the hollow tomb 
Frail mortals fall. 

Though sad may throb the heart, 

Or gladly bound. 
Its time of joy or grief 
May end, even more brief 
Than drops the forest-leaf 

Upon the ground. 

Waiting upon the brink 

Of death 's dark tide, 
I look far o'er the main, 
And see the shining plain 
Where joyfully reign 

The glorified. 

The fount of life I see, 

Whose golden shore 
Is pressed by eager feet. 
Of those who gladly meet. 
To taste its waters sweet. 

And thirst no more. 

I would be glad to lay 

My burden down 
At any hour, if I 



268 POEMS B V 

On airy wings might fly 
To that bright home on high, 
And wear the crown. 

Life's road to me has been 

A weary way; 
Few flowers have I found, 
But many thorns have bound 
My dreary path around, 

From day to day. 

Few sunny rays have come 

Lending their cheer ; 
But clouds have often spread 
Their dark wings overhead, 
And on my spirit shed 
Dim shadows drear. 

Each night, ere slumber soothes 

Me to repose, 
I think how sweet ' twould be 
If I in sleep could flee 
Away from earth, and see 

No more its woes. 



For I'm weary, weary, 
And long for rest — 
Rest like the angels share 



CLARA BUSH. 269 

In Heaven 's city fair ; 
Oh, may I sometime there 
Be ever blest. 

I pray thee, Father, give 

Me strength to bear 
My burden longer still, 
If it is thy dear will ; 
I know thou rulest well, 

With loving care. 

And though I cannot see, 

Nor understand. 
Why I am so oppress 'd — 
So grieved and sore distress 'd, 
I know all things are best 

That thou command. 

O, help me, then, to pass 

With grace beneath 
Thy rod that chastens me : 
Let me confide in thee. 
And meet triumphantly 

The hour of death. 



2/0 POEMS B Y 

ETERNAL REST. 

A little while we '11 tarry here, 
A little while our crosses bear, 

With hearts oppress 'd ; 
A little while the weight of woe 
Will bow our stricken spirits low, 
A little while sad tears will flow. 

But soon comes rest. 

Life seems a drear, beclouded day. 
Where seldom falls illuming ray, 

To break the mist; 
Yet let us not despairing sigh, 
Nor, in our weakness, question why 
Our day has not a fairer sky, — 

Beyond is rest. 

Though from the bitter, bitter cup. 
Of mingled sorrows we must sup, 

'Tis but to test 
Our faith in Christ ; and make us live 
For higher things than earth can give ; 
And all that true and faithful prove 

In Heaven will rest. 

It matters little, though our lot 
Be cast in dreary, desert spot ; 



CLARA BUSH, 271 

For life, at best, 
Has much of sadness, and a gloom 
Hangs o'er the passage to the tomb ; 
Yet, in Eden's bowers of bloom, 

Remaineth rest. 

A few short moments more of grief. 
Then death will bring us sweet relief; 

Within the breast 
Of peaceful earth we '11 calm repose. 
Forgetful of our toils and woes ; 
And where life's holy river flows. 

Our souls will rest. 

Although we cannot understand 
The chastening of God's dear hand, 

It rules for best. 
Then let us be resigned to fate, 
And, with patience, trusting wait, 
Till He shall open Heaven's gate, 

And bid us rest. 

How sweet ' twill be at xlose of life, 
To leave this weary world of strife ! 

And with the blest 
Dwell in the land of Paradise, 
Where ever cloudless are the skies, 
And where the soul may realize 

Eternal rest. 



272 POEMS BY 

LINES 

WRITTEN ON MY TWENTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY. 

Hark ! — an echo. It has a solemn tone, 
Like to the sounding of a distant knell 
Slowly tolling for some departed soul. 
Ah, it is drawing near — and nearer still — 
And now I understand from whence proceeds 
The melancholy sound. It is a peal 
Flung from -the ponderous belfry of Time, 
And borne along the vacant corridor 
Of all my vanished days. It wakes my heart 
To realize that from my life is fled 
Another precious year ! 

Yes, another year 
Is numbered with the past: yet, as I fold 
The sable shroud around and thus consign 
It with the former dead, I cannot weep 
To think it is no more. For grief and pain 
So nearly filled the passing moments up, 
And left so little room for joy and peace, 
I could not wish it back — only again 
To feel the pierce of sorrow's dart, and wipe 
The burning tears from eyes they oft have dimmed, 
And mark the tempest gather and the rays 
Of cheering light disperse. I only wish 
I could have filled the hours with nobler deeds. 



CLARA BUSH. 273 

And added to my Maker's treasury 
Something more worthy than the feeble mite 
That I have given. 

But He knows my weakness ; 
And though my work be not well done, and left 
Half incomplete, I trust He will forbear 
And spare the chastening rod. And if He 
Should choose to keep me yet another year 
A humble laborer in His employ, 
I'll strive to do the most I can, but fear 
The harvest-time will mete a poor reward 
For all my weary toil. I fain would add 
Many talents to the ones first given, 
And long to hear the Master say ' ' Well done. 
Thou good and faithful servant." 

Oft I feel 
Like some lorn waif cast all unwelcomely 
Upon the hospitable care of those 
Efficient workers in the field of life; 
Yet there are moments when a soothing sense 
Steals o'er my soul. — 'Tis when the voice of love 
Persuades me that my life is not in vain, — 
That I, unconsciously, ^m filling here 
A holy mission by teaching silently 
The wisdom in submitting to our fate, 



274 POEMS BY 

Unmurmuring at aught of high decree, — 
By sowing goodly seed that may spring forth 
And yield much fruit to far posterity, 
And making the exalted heart less proud 
, By the humiliated fount that flows 
Ever from mine. 

O think not thou that I 
Would choose to take the happy smile from lips 
Of guilelessness, or dim one beaming ray 
Of chastened light that fills the joyous eye 
Of innocence, or add one needless pang 
To any bosom. Yet it would be well 
Could I but make the thoughtless ones of vice 
More heedful of the perils that await 
The willful and vainglorious, and show 
The vanity of all that is of earth. 
We should follow the divine example 
Of the gentle Savior. Though King of kings. 
He was meek and lowly in heart. And we. 
Mere atoms in God's boundless universe — 
Should look around and contemplate the state 
Of our existence ! Only a little space 
■ In fleeting Time is here allotted us 
In which to fit our deathless souls for all 
Eternity. 

Let us a moment pause 
And sink the thought deep in our inmost hearts : 



CLARA BUSH. 2% 

O, that we could live to the perfection 
That our Creator, in His wisdom planned ; 
And travel on unto our journey's close, 
And lose not by the way one precious gem 
That might enrich the crown we hope to gain ! 




ERRATA^. 



Page 182 — Second word of fourteenth line should be visage. 

Page 136 — Seventh line of second stanza — an improper repetition of the 
word are. 

Page 169 — Second word in third line of third stanza should be lover's. 

Page 173 — Fourth word of third line should be softly. 

Page 174 — Sixth word of fourteenth line should be 07i. 

Page 194 — In 'f Sonnet to my Sister, etc.," the third word of fourth line 
should be have. 

Page 203. Third word of third line of "Sonnet to C. J. B." should be 
scatter. 

Page 204 — In sixth line of "Sonnet suggested by a visit, etc.," the letter 
/ is omitted from playmate. 

Page 215 — Second word in first line of fifth stanza should Tie he. 

Page 216 — Fourth word in second line of fifth stanza should be lowly. 

Page 260 — Fourth word of eighth line shovild be tidings. 

Page 262 — Third word of first line should he boatman. 

Some other slight misprints occur which will be left to the leniency of the 
reader. 



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